Of Crowns and Commoners
by kissmelikeapirate
Summary: A royal who feels lost. A young woman looking for home. Perhaps they can find what they need in each other… /-/ Prince Killian and commoner Emma canon-divergence AU.
1. The Lass

Mead, rum, ale; Emma Swan smelled of all of them. Her cotton skirts wore the stains of tankards spilled by accident or drunken exuberance. The dress that had been freshly laundered just hours earlier now clung to her skin and beneath her apron the purse heavy with coins from her toil hung from her belt by a thick cotton cord, each swing against her hips reminding her of why, in spite of the difficulties, she had continued to work in the tavern these past few years.

But by god it was hot; even more so than usual for a spring evening.

Sweat soaked the fine strands of blonde along her hairline that had escaped the braid she had made so hastily that morning. They stuck to her forehead and she found herself regularly pushing them out of the way in between filling glass after glass with ale and liquor. It was always like this at The Rabbit Hole when a ship came into port, which during the spring was almost every other day.

The tavern was the closest to the docks, with the swinging sign clearly visible from the wharf. So sailors, thirsty for a drink - and usually something more from a willing lass - flooded the small establishment almost every evening. They brought with them their loose lips and wandering hands and a woman had to be light on her feet to avoid their clutches.

Yet Emma had never sold herself. She was no angel, but that was a line she would never cross, even when she saw other women gleefully clutching purses full of coins at the end of the evening. Even though she needed the money badly and she was always aware of the lingering eyes that gazed at her curves as she worked. She didn't have much, but she had her pride. And that was worth more than it's weight in gold.

So, she toiled and sweated, smiling when she wanted to scream, though not afraid to offer a quick crack of her hand against the face of those who took liberties. But the sailors tipped well enough, those full of ale and merry to be on land even more so. For every bite of her tongue and every ache in the arches of her feet she thought of the pile of coins growing in the wooden chest that lay locked at the foot of her bed. This was good honest money and ultimately what would take her away from this life.

"Emma!"

The sound of her name being called startled her.

Looking up, she saw the source of the request. Mae 'Granny' Lucas was the stern faced widower who had run The Rabbit Hole since her husband's premature death so long ago that his name had been forgotten by all but the most grizzled regulars. Her age was indeterminate, her hair the palest grey yet her skin was a fresh and glowing as a woman not long out of her teens. Regardless, she had been called Granny for as long as anyone could remember and Emma had accepted this as easily as she accepted the stern (but kind) woman's offer for employment, despite Emma's lack of job experience at the time. The older woman stood behind the worn wooden bar that ran across one side of the tavern, her arms crossed defiantly and a frown on her face.

"Coming!" Emma cried in reply as she slammed a pitcher of mead onto a small table occupied by three cabin boys who didn't look old enough to shave, never mind drink. Not that things like that mattered around here.

Quickly wiping her hands on her apron, she picked her way across to where Granny stood.

Granny's lips were pulled into a thin smile, her chest puffed up and her eyes narrowed through the tiny round spectacles that perched on the tip of her nose. The publican nodded in the direction of the door. Emma grimaced as she saw the cause of Granny's displeased expression.

Pirates.

To some it may have appeared to be just another group of men fresh into shore. Yes, their dark linen shirts and jangling swords marked them out as not your typical sailors. But it was the look in their eyes that gave away their profession. Their steely eyed gazes that scanned the room, mild threat in their posture as they assessed the occupants of the tavern. Giving Granny a quick nod in reply, she made her way towards the newcomers.

"Gentleman, welcome to The Rabbit Hole," she said, planting her hands firmly on her hips and stretching to her full height.

One of the men looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. "Pleasure," he drawled, in a thick accent. The captain, she presumed due to the rich fabric of his clothes, his heavy brocade coat almost sweeping against the sawdust smattered board that made the floor of the tavern. He wore a black tricorn hat in a glossy velveteen material and a heavily jeweled pendant hung low on his chest, glinting rubies and diamonds catching the scant lantern light that flickered around the room.

Emma bit back a sharp reply. Now was not the time for her usual instincts to come into play. As much as she yearned to scowl and recoil in disgust, instead she smiled and tilted her head, looking straight into his inky black eyes. "We have no weapons in this tavern, so if you would please leave swords, daggers and pistols at the bar." She gestured towards Granny who was keeping a steady eye on the interaction. The older woman may have looked harmless, but Emma knew she had a ferocity that was rarely matched.

The captain took a step forward. "Oh pet, what's the harm of blade at a man's side?" He leaned forward, close enough for her to smell the rum on his breath and the lingering odor of sweat that clung to his clothes. "There are all sorts of dangers about. A man ought to be able to protect himself."

Pirates were so predictable.

With a quick breath, she dragged up her skirt to retrieve the dagger hidden inside her boot. Before the captain had a chance to react, she had an arm wrapped around his shoulders, the blade of the hidden knife pressed against his jugular. Immediately, his men drew their swords and pointed them in her direction. She was vaguely aware that the din of the tavern had dissipated as the patrons turned to stare.

"The only danger in this place is my dagger, pet," she purred, her heart racing as she waited a tense moment for his response. Her stomach clenched, her knuckles turning white as she pressed the blade closer to his skin, almost close enough to pierce it. She held her breath.

And he laughed. A deep bellied, rousing laugh that echoed around the low-ceilinged bar room.

Emma swallowed hard.

"Do as the lass says," he barked, his men looking at him in confusion until he repeated his order and they one by one handed their weapons over to Granny. Only then did she loosen her grip and pull the dagger away from his neck.

Slowly, he turned, locking eyes with her as he undid the buckle of his belt from which the leather frog holding his sword hung, tossing it onto the bar without looking away.

"Better?" he quipped. She nodded, sliding her blade back into her boot and replacing her skirts to cover her ankles. The tension in the room began to ease, the onlookers turning back to their drinks.

Emma dampened her lips and lifted her chin. "What can I get you?" she asked.

"Oh, I can think of a great many things," the captain laughed. "But a round of ale for my men will be a good start."

With a curt nod, Emma turned away to the barrels that held their stock, slowly counting to ten as she willed the tension in her shoulders to ease.

You see, it never got any easier. Indeed, she had perfected the appearance of toughness and bravado - had done so since she was in her teens. But that wasn't how she felt inside. Deep within herself, every time she stood up to an unruly customer or went toe to toe with an adversary, she was just a little girl, pretending to be brave. Emma Swan was very good at pretending.

After nodding to another serving lass to take over the requested ale, she stepped behind the garnet-colored curtain that separated the bar from the private area that housed the living quarters. Behind it there was a staircase to her left which led to the upper level with its bedrooms and kitchen area and in front of her a small parlour. She entered, relishing in the cooler air, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she stepped towards the small table and chairs that were pressed against the wall beneath the tiny window that looked out onto the small lane behind the building. Upon the table was fresh water and the a basket of breads, cheeses and fruit that the girls would take from when they were taking a rest from their duties. She picked up an earthenware cup and poured herself some cool water. Slowly she sipped it while closing her eyes and letting herself drift away for a moment, to somewhere far away-

"Em?"

Emma's eyes flashed open as she heard the voice of Ruby Lucas - the proprietor's granddaughter and one of the other women who kept the patrons well stocked in ale. The other woman had taken Emma under her wing when she had stumbled into The Rabbit Hole. They were similar in age, though Ruby wore a worldly expression on her face that Emma had never quite understood. It was like she held some secrets inside. Emma never asked her about them. If Ruby wanted to tell her, she would. Of at least that's what Emma told herself. She had secrets enough of her own. And she guarded them fiercely.

Despite Emma's attempts to keep to herself, Ruby had became the closest thing she had to a friend. Not that Emma had much experience when it came to companionship.

"I'm fine," she promised as she turned around. Ruby's eyebrows raised. "I am," she insisted.

"Okay," Ruby said as she filled another cup with water.

"And that's it? No cajoling me to share my feelings, no interrogation?"

Ruby smiled in that particular way of hers, the one that made her naturally deep red lips curve at the edges and her brows arch. "I know you better than you know yourself, Emma Swan."

Emma rolled her eyes.

"You try and hide behind that tough exterior, but I know you're something altogether gentler underneath."

Emma finished the water, relishing the way it cooled her throat.

"If it makes you feel better, you keep telling yourself that," Emma replied with a tight grin.

"Sure Swan!" Ruby called as Emma walked away back to the bar.

The new patrons had settled themselves at the back of the place, in the darkest corner where only a few candles provided illumination. The previous occupants of the table must have scurried away. This may have been a dockside tavern, but clientele were still savvy. Better not to mess with pirates. Unless you had to.

The local tarts had already started to filter in, as word always travelled fast among their ranks when a rich haul came to town. Emma pulled a grimace on her face as she approached them with the ale. They'd already been served, but she knew she needed to keep them in place with a firm reminder of her presence.

Gritting her teeth, she made in their direction, taking another pitcher of ale from the bar as she moved

"Gentlemen," she said, nodding her head as she reached them, topping up the offered glasses as she watched the wenches brush up against the men and fawn over them with a dedication that Emma could only begrudgingly admire. She had never been that desperate. Close. But not quite.

Her life had never been easy. And at times she could have called it incredibly difficult. But she was scrappy, as Granny Lucas had told her many times, she knew how to kick and punch her way out of life's dead ends and come out fighting. She had to.

"Won't you join us?" leered the pirate captain, patting at a spot next to him on the bench. Emma raised her brows.

"I don't mix with the patrons," she said, "Against the rules."

"Well, these ladies seem to not have a problem with it. I'm sure the landlord will see you free for a while. Let me make up for our chilly meeting."

Emma placed the jug on the bench and leaned in.

"I didn't say it was a tavern rule, it's my own."

The edge of his lip rose in a crooked smile. He reached beneath the table and she tensed - anticipating a weapon to be drawn. But it was a purse heavy with gold coins that he placed in front of him.

"I would compensate you for your time," he leered, leaning closer.

She placed her hand on the table, shoving the money back towards him.

"I'm not for sale."

"Everything is for sale, for the right price."

A sad expression flickered over her face as she thought how much she hoped that was true-

"Not me," she said, filling up his tankard and then walking away. With perhaps a tinge of regret, as she thought of how much closer that purse of coins would bring her to her goal.

* * *

Dusk had painted the sky a burnt pink by the time the last drunk had been tossed into the street. The women moved quickly around the tavern with practiced ease, extinguishing candles and lanterns, wiping the tables down with soapy rags and counting the coins they had earned with weary eyes.

Emma could barely stifle a yawn as she made her way up the staircase behind the velvet curtain and into the small room that had been her own for as long as she had worked for Granny Lucas. After she untied her purse from her belt she shimmied out of her apron and dress, leaving on her chemise as she sat on the bed and poured the coins she had earned out onto the soft, blue blanket.

Enough, yet not enough.

The small silver pieces she had earned from the pirates were the most valuable and almost made her interactions with them bearable. Quickly she added up her haul before slipping to her feet. Around her neck she wore the key to the trunk in which she kept her most treasured possessions. She opened it, locating the smaller wooden box which held all the money she owned in the word. After slipping the new coins into it, she sighed. It would be perhaps another year at this rate to raise what she needed. And even then there was no guarantee it would be enough.

Before she closed the trunk, she reached further into its depths and pulled out a faded picture, one that had run through her hands many times. The boy in it was small, with a mop of dark hair. He was smiling, the happy smile of a child who had only known good in the world. His oversized woollen tunic was held tight with a thick leather belt and he sat in a meadow filled with buttercups and daisies. Her heart swelled as she glanced over his familiar features.

"Soon," she whispered to herself as she kissed the photograph and locked it away. Hidden in the darkness, like all her secrets had to be.


	2. The Scoundrel

The air was thick with the musty scent of perspiration. Quite a feat, considering the airy nature of the room in which the prostrate body of Killian Jones now lay. He was on his back, the sheet across his body haphazardly drawn, barely covering his groin, his clothes forgotten in a heap where he had stepped into the bed.

These lodgings were in the more genteel part of Shreveport, not that that counted for much. Though they did boast large enough rooms with windows paned with unbroken glass and doors that locked with heavy brass keys. Of course such relative opulence was not inexpensive. But thankfully, this was not of much consequence to an indulged prince whose purse bulged with more than one could ever easily spend.

Shreveport was a town of little consequence to most, populated mainly by those with less than illustrious pasts. It had been founded some 100 years prior at the cross-roads of two major travel routes that connected the kingdoms of Arendelle, Bretton, Misthaven and Camelot. Opportunist types saw a chance to make their fortunes, setting up makeshift stores and boarding houses, plying their trade on the passing travellers, some making fine fortunes in the mud and dankness of the forest.

Eventually, temporary dwellings became more permanent ones and in time a small town grew. Being half-way from nowhere, belonging to no kingdom: which made it the perfect place for those who wished to lose themselves. While there was a civility to day to day life that made it a pleasant enough place to live, laws and consequence were somewhat lacking.

Killian was barely conscious when he heard the voice of his valet.

"Come on, Jones, get your arse into gear."

His reply was a guttural groan and an arm tossed over his face.

"Bloody hell Robin," Killian moaned, his head beginning to pound. _God what had he drank last night?_

The room brightened as Robin Locksley flung open the curtains. Killian cursed under his breath.

"We need to prepare for the journey back to Bretton. You saw the letter," Robin said.

"Why am I being called home again? What excuse did they use this time?"

Robin's footsteps were heavy against the glossy wooden floor of the prince's temporary bedchamber. "You and I both know that your mother has not seen you for almost a year. I think that qualifies as reason enough for her youngest son to return home."

Killian tossed his arm aside and cast his friend a withering look through slanted eyes.

With a sigh, Robin folded his arms. "I am your friend, highness, but I am also a sworn knight of the king. He'll have my head if we don't follow his commands."

"Not bloody likely. You know Father dearest adores you." Robin flashed him a smile. "And don't call me 'highness'. It makes me feel old."

Robin crouched beside the bed, joining his hands and resting them on the mattress. "Mate, come on. It's one visit, a week at most. If we leave today we can be back on the road soon. Your mother…"

"Has my brother," Killian finished.

"Aye," Robin nodded, "And your brother is a fine son. But she has _two_ , as she reminds me frequently."

The young prince was silent.

"Killian…"

"Fine," he spat, sitting up and frowning as a ray of mid-afternoon sunlight fanned out over his face. Robin was bloody persistent, yet perhaps this could still work in his favour... "But on condition that I choose the route back to Bretton and we stay no more than a month."

Surprised, Robin frowned. Killian was not normally so easily persuaded into anything. "And for that you will agree, no incidents, no...missteps?"

"I'm a man of my word, am I not?"

And for that, Robin could not disagree. For all his faults, Killian was a man of honour, a man with a code if you will. Though perhaps not the code that most polite society would agree with.

"That you are, my lord," Robin said, with a sweeping bow, which verged upon mocking in its execution.

Killian took a deep breath, yawning and stretching out the stiffness of a night's drunken exuberance. "Settle our business, Locksley, I wish to leave come first light in the morn."

"Not today?"

"I have my own business to attend to." He looked up at Robin, raising his brow as if challenging him to question this.

"Aye. Of course," his valet nodded, a frown marring his features as he wondered what his royal friend had planned.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Killian had fully roused himself, eaten, washed and dressed. This was his usual routine: rarely was the prince seen outside his lodgings in daylight. The night held so much more promise to a man whose aim in life was better served in darkness and secrecy.

The streets of Shreveport were mostly quiet. The few, cobbled lanes of the town were traversed by the occasional carriage as Killian made his way to his destination. He passed by the stores and workshops that served the travellers that journeyed this way, with their brightly coloured signage and chalkboards of competing prices. Next, were the lodging houses and adjoining stables, 'No Vacancy' signs tacked to their doors and flickering lanterns at their windows. Finally, he entered a residential area. Not smart and polished like where he and Robin lodged, this one was darker, seedier, each corner seemingly full of secrets. Heavy trees hung with vines in the vacant lots, moonlight the only illumination, so inadequate even on a clear night such as this one. Each building was of it's own architecture. Haphazardly they had been built as the town had grown, from whatever materials were available to the owners. It was at the largest of these building that he ended his journey.

At four stories, it was the tallest dwelling in Shreveport. Fashioned from unusual grey brick, it was in stark contrast to the wooden homes that surrounded it. It had in fact been built by a horse merchant, the materials shipped all the way from Misthaven itself. It was intended to be a family home, a place where a wealthy man could lord over his neighbours. That is until a heavy hand of cards had turned him into a pauper in one foul swoop and he was turned out of his home before the night had ended.

After striding up to the faded, black door, Killian knocked three times. It took only a few moments until it inched open, revealing the murky darkness of inside.

"Yes?" came a croaky voice.

"It's Jones. I'm here to see Bo."

There was the sound of feet shuffling, though the owner of them was still not visible. A few seconds later, the door opened further. It revealed a small woman, blinking behind round glasses, a lantern in her hand. "The mistress will be with you shortly. Please wait in the parlour."

Killian raised his brow and nodded in understanding. He made his own way to the directed room, already intimately familiar with the layout of the residence.

The ground floor was indeed as any other home may be: a parlour, a sitting lounge, a large kitchen and an office which was always locked (he had tried the door on numerous occasions). However, it was on the upper floors where he spent most of his time. For Bo, (or to use her full name, Bo Peep,) was the premiere gambling den owner and madame for a hundred miles.

In the parlour he made his way to the drinks cabinet that lay beside the window, whose curtains were pulled tightly closed as usual. He pulled out a bottle of rum and a silver cup, pouring out a generous measure of his favourite drink as he waited.

His mother hated him drinking rum. She would only have been more disgusted had it been gin. She called it a drink of scoundrels and wasters, of sailors and pirates. He had laughed the first time she has said that, for he had long since thought of himself as a scoundrel. While his brother abstained from the vices of alcohol, only indulging in a glass of wine at a feast or celebration, the younger son was rarely a day without a dose. It was as much a part of him as his sapphire blue eyes and his silver-tipped tongue.

"Hello love."

He span around at the guttural vowels of the lady of the house.

"Madame Peep," he replied with an exaggerated bow as the extravagantly dressed woman advanced towards him. She was swathed in yards of bright blue satin, her face painted a startling white which only served to highlight the unnatural red hue of her hair, even in the dim light of the sitting room. She smiled thinly, her cheeks rising and her eyes crinkling making her look almost beautiful. Perhaps in her youth she had been, but those days had long passed.

"You know to call me Bo, Killian," she said, presenting her hand to him so he could lay a kiss upon it. "Now then love, what brings you at this time. You know the tables don't open for hours yet."

He took a quick sip of his rum and ran his tongue along his lips. "Alas, my lady, I am here to inform you of my imminent departure."

She gave him a queer look.

"Matters beyond my control call me away for the moment."

She ran her hands over her slender hips and let out a small, feminine peal of laughter."You mean the queen has summoned her little boy home?"

Killian frowned. "Hmm?"

"I know who you are, ' _Jones_ ', even if the rest of the dimwits in this bloody town don't."

His jaw slackened a moment. So she had known all along who he was. And she'd managed not to say a word in the six months he had been in residence, spending his gold on her gambling tables.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me," she said, walking past him and pouring a glass of her own rum. "For now."

He wasn't overly surprised. One such as Madame Peep did not get to their position in life though ignorance and stupidity. Killian had a strong admiration for a woman who had clearly clawed herself out of a difficult existence into a position of power, if not quite respectability.

"Anonymity is rare for one such as me," he admitted, his eyes lingering on the jewelled rings that encased her fingers.

"And secrets are valuable," she replied, tapping her glass against his.

They drank in silence, her eyes flickering over his form as he digested this new information.

"My bill-"

"Will be settled when you return," she finished.

"You have such faith in me?"

She smiled again, this time with with a hint of menace, "I know the likes of you. And the likes of you, belongs in a place like this. That's why you have been here almost every night. You have no-where else to be. Or, at least you feel you don't."

Bo Peep was perceptive. He would give her that.

"And as you presume, I will return when my business is settled. I will be keeping my lodging in my absence"

She nodded and gave him a small, perfunct curtsey. Killian rolled the remnants of the rum around in his glass. He downed the liquor and then turned towards the door.

"Just one question, _your highness._ "

Killian stiffened at the sound of his title, twisting his mouth into a lopsided smile

"Yes?"

"Why _does_ a prince hide himself away in a place like this? When you have palaces and riches. You could go anywhere."

He shook his head. He'd pondered the same thing and had came to one conclusion.

"Like you said, this is where I belong, is it not?"

* * *

 **Two Days Later**

The prince and his valet had made quicker progress on their journey than either had anticipated. The weather had been fine and their horses swift. Foregoing a carriage for most of the trip had indeed been a good decision. Bretton was only perhaps a few more days ride away and they were not expected for another week.

"We should make haste, Killian, surprise your mother," Robin suggested as they stopped to rest the horses.

"And where is the fun in that, Locksley?"

Robin narrowed his eyes and studied his friend carefully. "What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Not much," he shrugged, scratching his week-old beard with the palm of his right hand. "However, we are very close to Doveport-"

"Doveport? Why on earth would you want to go there?"

Killian's eyes sparkled, "I hear the sea air is quite pleasant."

"And?"

The prince rolled his eyes. There was little point in hiding his true purpose from Robin. He always discovered it anyway. "And I've been told the dice there are rich this time of year."

Robin gave him a weary glance. "I thought you had moved on from dice to cards."

Killian shrugged. "I gamble on whatever medium suits the surroundings."

"And you think you will get away with a loaded die in a pirate haunt?"

"I do love a challenge," the prince grinned.

Shifting on his feet, Robin sighed heavily. "Two days. That is all. And then we continue our journey."

Killian bowed. "As you desire, dear sir."

Robin shook his head. "You're an arse sometimes Killian."

"And yet here you still are."

"Aye," Robin groaned, "here I am."

* * *

Robin had been sent to secure rooms in one of the lodging houses that Doveport was flush with and Killian took the chance to find his way around the narrow streets before night fell. He had been given the names of a few taverns that held the best sport and he was eager to locate them.

Making his way towards the waterfront, he soaked in the salty breeze that meandered through the lanes. He suddenly realised how much he missed the sea air. The familiar scent sending an ache to his heart.

Bretton was a coastal kingdom founded on naval prowess and trade and his self-imposed exile inland had impacted him more than he realised it seemed.

At one point, in his youth, he had fancied joining the navy. It was an acceptable occupation for a younger son of royal lineage, and Bretton's navy was respected and revered throughout many kingdoms. He had spent his time away from his studies learning how to study the stars and the engineering of ships - always begging his father to allow him to enrol in the naval college, even when he was several years below the age of consent.

It was his mother who had forbade him.

Queen Agnetha was not a royal by birth. In fact, she was not even from a noble or titled family. Instead, she was the daughter of traders, wealthy ones to be sure, but those who were still considered of a lesser stock by some sections of society. Her marriage to Prince Brennan of Bretton had caused quite the scandal.

The prince had been ten years her senior when they met at a public ball, where the prince had gone incognito (the desire to be undiscovered seemed one of the few things Brennan and his son had in common). She had told Killian the story a thousand times when he was a boy: how they had danced until their feet ached and before dawn had awoken they were engaged and had ridden away to elope at the nearest church.

Killian had always found it hard to reconcile this impulsive, passionate action with the brooding, severe father he had grown up with. Prince Brennan had become King Brennan before Killian was even one year old. And King Brennan, ruler of Bretton, head of the kingdom's army and navy, protector of its residents, was quite the opposite of the carefree picture his mother painted. He sometimes wondered how his mother was still so loyal to him. He could be so cold to her. So indifferent.

Perhaps that was why she had forbade her son to join the navy. Despite his tears and begging, his sixteen year old self was unable to change her mind. She remained steadfast, refusing to let him follow his dreams, protesting the danger of the occupation. Proclaiming her need for her children to be safe. Imploring him with the sea blue eyes they shared.

He'd sulked for weeks. His heart hardening without him even realising.

Another event that had sent him on this path.

Yet still, he loved the sea.

The way the sun glittered on its surface on a fine day, the steely grey it turned when a storm was brewing. He relished the whipping spray of the salt water and the way it scalded his skin and awakened something deep within his soul. In the years since his coming of age, he had spent as much time at sea as he could, traversing the ocean and travelling far and wide. Seeking some kind of fulfillment.

He stumbled upon a small market as the followed the call of the ocean. It was quiet, the morning rush long since passed and the stall holders already beginning to fill their carts with their unsold wares. A hunger growled in his belly as he remembered he had not eaten for several hour, his nose wrinkling at the sweet scent of fresh fruit. His pocket was heavy with coins and it took only a moment for him to resolve to satisfy his hunger there and then.

Within minutes he had located a baker's stall. Not much remained, a few loaves, a pie or two, and a basket in which lay a glossy pastry, sprinkled with almonds and filled with a sweet jam. He smiled, quickly reaching out to take it

"Hey!"

Startled, he looked to his right to see a pair of bright green eyes staring at him indignantly.

"That was mine," the owner of the eyes said. A female owner, with thick dark lashes lining the moss green stare that held his own.

"I do not see your name upon the pastry," he quipped, picking it up and holding it between them.

"Hmph," she muttered, folding her arms over her faded violet dress. "Well if you had opened your eyes, sir, you would have seen my hand reaching for it before you rudely barged in."

After a brief paused Killian laughed, earning himself a scoul from the woman, who tilted her head, a strand of golden hair escaping from her worn bonnet.

"Is something funny?"

Gathering himself, he placed the pastry back in the basket from which he found it. "Far be it from me to deny a pretty lady such a sweet treat," he said.

She gave him a wary glance, before snatching up the treat and placing it in her own basket beneath her arm. Before fishing in the purse hung from her belt.

"Please, allow me love," he insisted.

"I am not your love," she spat, pulling out a handful of coins, "And I am more than capable of paying my own way."

Oh, she was feisty this one, he thought through slanted eyes. It was not often a lass behaved this way around him. Though perhaps Robin would say he surrounded himself with the wrong kind of woman.

"Consider it my penance for the intrusion," he insisted.

Pausing, she she looked again at the coins in her hand and then back at Killian.

"I promise I have no nefarious intentions."

Slowly, she clenched her fist and nodded, just as the stall holder appeared. Killian pointed at her basket and handed over the payment. The woman's posture softened a little, her shoulders sagging slightly as she turned, her skirts swishing about her ankles and revealing the hilt of a dagger hidden in her boot.

 _Intriguing_ , he thought.

"I hope you expect nothing in return, _sir,_ for you _will_ be disappointed."

"I would never dream to suggest such a thing."

They stood quietly for a second as a small donkey and cart passed by. She seemed to hesitate.

"Killian Jones, at your service," he announced, with a small bow.

She nodded her head, trying to work out what this man wanted.

"And you are-?"

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Late," she replied.

"That's a strange name," he teased, and damn her traitorous gut as it leapt a little at the obvious flirtation.

In reply she tossed him a small smile, punctuated a dip of her head.

Before he could say more, she had disappeared into the lanes that ran off the market place, a flutter of violet fabric in her wake and a yearning to know more about this lass clouding Killian's thoughts.

A moment later, he turned back to the stall.

Suddenly he was not so hungry any more.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh I want to give away all my secrets about this fic... but where would the fun be? I hope you are intrigued enough to keep reading. Many twists and turns to be found. Reviews and feedback are my ambrosia!**


	3. Second Time's a Charm

Time was a funny thing. Sundials and pendulum clocks were the sole methods of timekeeping in Doveport and both were less than accurate. A cloudy day, a rainstorm, a careless jolt; these could quickly throw things out of sync. It made the concept of being _on_ time and keeping a schedule a difficult one. This in itself had been a strange concept when Emma had first arrived here. Well, arrived in Arendelle, that is. She thought briefly of the wristwatch buried deep in her trunk beneath all her clothing. It was an expensive one, one that you had to wind to keep the time. Old fashioned. No batteries needed, just a regular turn of the crown. It would put shame to any other timepiece in the area, she was sure. Even the few pocket watches she had seen could not keep time as well. As such, she had been tempted to sell it on more than one occasion. She could raise a good price for it, she was sure. Enough to bolster her savings. But she knew such a sale would bring with it questions and attention which she did not wish at all. In fact, she feared. So the watch remained hidden beneath her clothing, a perverse kind of souvenir of a life she barely remembered and one of the few tentative links to her past that remained.

Since time keeping was so unpredictable and the town being as laid back as it was already, the gentle laziness that engulfed Doveport was sometimes suffocating, especially on days when the port was quiet.

Today had been one of those days.

No large merchant ships had docked. No crews had crowded into the guest houses on furlough. The streets were quiet.

Emma presumed this had something to do with the inclement weather. That afternoon a heavy storm had whipped up just off shore, banishing the bright sunlight and bringing with it thick sheets of rainfall and strong winds. The streets of Doveport had turned into temporary rivers, water tumbling between the buildings, forcing the few foolish enough to brave the weather to pick their way through the muck, lest their footwear become sodden. As a further consequence, Emma and the other ladies of The Rabbit Hole had found their usual laundry day plans thwarted and the ladies had rushed to gather up their garments when the rain began. Their freshly laundered belongings now waited forlornly in the washroom, the clothing line that spanned the small yard behind the tavern empty except for the occasional drip of water falling from the twisted length of hemp.

And this situation posed a problem. Emma had counted on the fair, spring weather to provide her with a clean dress to wear that evening. Instead, she was faced with less than suitable alternatives. Her possessions were few, preferring to wear her clothing until it was replaced by necessity rather than want. As such, the lavender day dress she wore most was faded and worn, already patched upon the elbows by Granny's fair hand. The only other dry items she owned were her riding pants and blouson, a gift from the ladies of the tavern for her last birthday, or a pale blue linen gown that cinched her waist in tightly. Ruby had talked her into the purchase almost a year earlier for the midsummer festival and she had worn it a mere handful of times since. The neckline was lower than she was used to, showing a hint of cleavage when the ribbons of the corset were tied tight enough. Underneath there was a matching white chemise that flounced out about the wrists and provided a balance to the full skirt that was pleated heavily around the waist.

It was an extravagance that she had regretted almost immediately. The money she had spent on the purchase could have been put to much better use and she had scolded herself profusely. But tonight it was the most obvious choice of attire. The regulars of the bar would protest if she were to serve them wearing britches. That was one thing about Doveport - damn, in this whole world - she found difficult. The roles of women were so entrenched - one must dress a certain way, talk a certain way, act a certain way… at least in the company of most men. Of course when alone with other women these concerns eased and there were men with whom it was possible to be herself. But generally, she kept herself in checked and followed these damned rules of 'decent society' (as Granny had called them through gritted teeth). To do otherwise would bring unnecessary attention to her. And that was the last thing that Emma Swan desired.

After cleaning up at the washbowl that sat on the small dresser in her room, she unbuttoned her day dress, setting it aside before pulling the chemise over her head. Next she shuffled into the linen dress, straightening it as best she could, taking a glance at herself in the mirror behind the washbowl. Methodically she began to tighten the laces that ran down the front of the dress, sucking in sharp breaths with each tug. It felt strangely comforting, the tightness of the simple corset sewn into the dress holding her in an embrace, making her straighten her back and pull back her shoulders. As much as she hated the restrictions such garments placed upon her physically, she couldn't deny the appeal they provided to the eye of the beholder and a woman's confidence. As her waist was pulled in, her shape became silhouetted against the darkness of the room. The light blue lines were cool compared to the light tan her skin had already began to acquire. She had to reluctantly agree with Ruby; this was a good color on her. Not that that mattered in the slightest.

She tied off the ribbons and then took her brush from the dresser, pulling it through her hair and removing the tangles that had worked their way between the strands as the day had worn on. She took the length of her hair and twisted it carefully, coiling it into a chignon at the back of her head, before securing it with a few hair pins and smoothing back the stray tendrils that had already began to curl about her face.

Finally, she took the key that hung around her neck and tucked it beneath her chemise. She frowned when it was still visible. Quickly, she unlocked the trunk which the key belonged to. Inside she located the tattered cotton bag that held the few small possessions she had brought with her to Doveport. There she found what she needed, removing it and relocking the chest.

It was a pin, a button she had called it as a child. It was round and faded, the word 'N*SYNC' now almost invisible, the black letters mere ghosts of their former selves. Emma smiled a minute, as she remembered buying it in the market at Faneuil Square. That seemed a lifetime ago. Maybe it was, she sighed.

Coiling the necklace chain, she used the button to pin it to the inside of her chemise, adjusting the fit until it was invisible.

Then after giving herself one more glance in the mirror, she headed downstairs to the bar.

/

"You could try and look more cheerful, Locksley."

Robin grimaced. "Then I would merely be changing my appearance, not my feelings."

"Would you prefer I ordered you to cheer up?"

"That's your prerogative."

Killian glanced up from the goblet of rum he was drinking as he dressed. Robin's face was pulled into a frown. He felt a small flicker of guilt. He knew that Robin was in a difficult position, being both his friend and accountable to his father. He knew that were they late in returning to Bretton that it would be he whom would be chastised, not Killian. And for all the trouble Killian gave him, Robin remained his closest friend in the world, aside from his brother. Many times he had made clear his disapproval of Killian's penchant for gambling. Those chastisements fell on deaf ears. It had been a long time since anyone could make Killian behave differently than the path he had set himself on many years earlier.

Killian sighed. "How about we start of at one of those taverns down by the harbor? My shout. Come on mate. You just need to loosen up a little."

"And then who would look out for you?" Robin replied, giving him a pointed look. Killian met Robin's eyes and he felt his cheeks warm, just a little. His friend had indeed rescued him from quite a few difficult situations of the previous years. Sadly, drunken Killian was not quite as charming as he thought he was. Like the time when he had propositioned the wife of a merchant when they had been travelling through Arendelle. In his defense, she had been more that willing to venture with him outside the tavern in which he had found her. Her husband had been less enamoured, demanding a duel to regain his honor, a fight to which Killian had readily agreed… Until Robin tactfully reminded him that he could barely see straight, let alone yield a sword. Robin's smooth tongue and a pocketful of coins had soothed the man's bruised ego.

"Tavern first, but if you get rat arsed, I'm bringing you back," Robin continued, "Even someone with pockets as deep as you can't afford to lose a bag of gold a night."

"I don't plan to lose," Killian protested.

"You never do."

Raising an eyebrow at his friend, Killian set his drink aside and finished fastening the buttons of his crisp linen shirt. Upon it, he pulled a silver-grey watered silk vest and a black brocade coat with silver braiding about the cuffs. It was one of his more understated outfits. It spoke of wealth, but not ostentatiously so. As much as he liked to be admired and noticed, it had to be under his own terms. Long ago he had forbidden Robin to make any reference to his royal lineage when they travelled. Instead her presented himself as the playboy son of rich parents. Not an altogether inaccurate presentation and one that allowed him a sliver of anonymity in most parts.

In truth, Killian had never enjoyed the trappings his title brought. So much expectation was placed upon his shoulders by the words 'his royal highness' and the perverse interest in his day to day life that came with it left him feeling trapped. As soon as the details of his birthright were known by those he met, he could feel their attitude towards him change. He was a novelty; a freak. Something he'd always detested.

Even as a little boy he was aware he was different. He'd been a somewhat lonely child. Liam was almost eight years older than him and mostly uninterested in playing with his younger sibling. There had been times when he had tried to gain the friendship of the few other children in the castle - usually the offspring of servants who lived within the castle keep - but he had soon learned this was fruitless. As soon as they were discovered mixing with the young prince they were hushed away and reminded of their station. It was against protocol, such mixing of the classes their parents had said.

He was never certain, but he was quite sure that his father had been the one to ensure he was isolated in this way. King Brennan had kept a tight hold on his sons through their formative years, monitoring their education and their interactions with both servants and other nobles alike. It was like living in a cage. A very pretty one for sure, but stifling. Liam bore it much better than him, but then he had always been a better person. So noble and giving, never selfish like his younger brother. Killian knew he was the lesser sibling and no matter how hard he had tried growing up he could never seem to change. Resigned to this fact, eventually he had given up.

He was almost of age when he began to act out. Tired of years of restraint, something cracked within him. He could never be who his father wanted, but what did it matter? His father had an heir. He was surplus to requirements. The _spare_. Of this he was acutely aware. Though his father had never explicitly said so, he knew enough of the king's temperament and royal protocol to understand his purpose. And like a true disappointment, he rebelled against this expectation as soon as he was able to.

They left their lodging house once both were dressed, Robin not mentioning again their earlier spat yet still wearing a look of grim acceptance. Killian wished he would relax a little. Surely he knew Killian well enough now. This was the way he lived his life. And he liked it. In his coat pocket he felt the weighted dice press against his ribs, ready to be brought into a game later in the evening, when his opponents were drunk enough to not notice. Killian Jones could well handle his rum, despite what his friend thought. He'd spent long enough practicing.

They'd walked further into the silent town, the streets already dark and sea mist swirling thicker as they got closer to the docks. He stopped when they reached a small inn. Anonymous enough, with a warm glow of lantern light shining through the windows and a well cared for sign hung above the doorway.

"How about here, Locksley?"

"As good a place as any, I suppose," Robin muttered, his obvious unhappiness clear in his voice.

Ignoring him, Killian headed towards the tavern in question.

 _The Rabbit Hole._

/

The fire was dying down already and it wasn't even ten. It must have been the cold, damp air that swamped the tavern every time the door opened. The storm may have passed but in its wake it left an unseasonable coldness which made the sea mist that tumbled into shore even more biting. Emma picked up the poker and jostled about the remaining embers until they glowed invitingly, the bright gold flickering and swelling amidst the charcoal ashes. There were only a few dry logs remaining and she added those to the hearth. Then she wiped her hands on the apron she had wrapped around her dress and sighed. As expected, the tavern was quiet. Just the regulars for whom it would take a monsoon to keep away from their nightly tipple. As such, Granny had already retired, her joints aching from the damp weather, leaving Ruby and Emma to take charge.

Behind her, she heard the creaking of the door hinges then the soft thud of it closing. More patrons. Perhaps the chance to earn a little extra, if she was charming enough. Turning to the door, she prepared a smile on her face. Keeps the customers happy, Granny had told her after her first few shifts. In truth, Emma hadn't realized that her usual expression resembled a frown. It wasn't like she spent many hours studying her reflection. How she appeared to others had never really mattered. In fact, keeping people at arm's length was something she was quite the expert at.

It was only when she was halfway to greeting the newcomers that she started. There was something familiar about one of the men. His posture, the slope of his shoulders- he turned and allowed the light from a wall lantern to illuminate his face. It was the man from the market. She hesitated a moment, ready to turn back and allow Ruby to take charge of their needs, but then she stopped herself. If she had learned anything about him during their brief encounter it was that he did not seem short of money, so she may as well take advantage.

"Good evening gentleman," she said, advancing a few steps further and squaring her shoulders into the posture of one confident and self assured (her favored guise when faced with self doubt).

He turned his face to her - Killian, that was his name. She'd always had a good memory for names and faces.

The recognition that crossed over his features was clearly visible, but for some reason he did not act upon it. Instead, he nodded his head and smiled briefly at the woman from the market with no name. He hadn't expected to see her again, Doveport being larger than most towns, and he was even more surprised to see her in a tavern. He hadn't taken her for a bar wench when they had met earlier that day. His keen eyes were quick to observe the pretty blue of the gown she wore and how it complimented her golden hair and skin, she seemed to sparkle almost in the dim light. He was distracted a moment. She was a beautiful lass, but he had met many attractive women- He should say something. It would be quite the sport to toy with her, certainly something that Robin would expect of him. But though the temptation was real, something stopped him. He saw caution and uncertainty in her eyes.

A look of confusion flashed over her face - her brows scrumping together as she observed him and the other man, taking in their fine clothes and well groomed appearances. She edited her previous observation: this pair seemed _very_ wealthy. Maybe he didn't remember her. The rich and powerful rarely remembered folk as lowly as herself. Pressing a smile more firmly into her cheeks she gestured to a nearby table, "Perhaps some ale to get you started?"

"Aye," nodded the other gentleman, his voice a little softer than his companion's.

Killian smirked, "As Locksley said, but your best ale. None of that cheap piss that passes for beer round these parts."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she replied, "Of course," giving a brief nod as she scurried away into the back room where the better quality barrel was kept. There she felt an irrational slight at the lack of recognition. Though there meeting had been brief, she had been quick to notice his handsome features and the inviting sparkle in his eye. She met many men in her work at the tavern, but not often one as striking as this stranger with the purse full of coins and flirtatious words that were far smoother than the usual come ons she received from the sailors who frequented The Rabbit Hole. For a moment she was lost in the memory of their meeting, the sweet smell of the pastry and the cheap thrill of an unexpected compliment.

After a few seconds she mentally chastised herself, shaking away these daydreaming thoughts of a stranger who would be gone in a day or two. She filled a pitcher quickly and carried it to where they sat, collecting two tankards from the bar as she passed, nodding to Ruby who worked in the other corner to let her know these men were being accommodated

She filled each cup without being asked. Killian had his back to her, so she had no time to study his face, instead she was only able to notice he had a thick head of fine, dark hair and wore an expensively tailored coat. She thought back to his face and remembered he had blue eyes. Not many had blue eyes in these parts.

"Thank you," said the other man - Locksley he'd been called- giving her a genuine smile that lit up his handsome features.

"Is that all?" She asked.

And that was when Killian Jones - yes, his name was Jones wasn't it - chose to tilt his head and show his face, eyes flashing over her form as dimples creased in his cheeks. Yes, his eyes were definitely blue; blue as a summer's ocean. For a moment she was lost until his friend spoke again, a heavy breath caught on her lips.

"Yes, thank you," he said, pushing a coin in her direction that she quickly slipped into the purse beneath her apron before turning away, trying to forget the color of a certain dark haired gentleman's eyes. She busied herself cleaning tables that had been scrubbed twice already and refilling the barely touched tankards of the regulars.

"What's wrong with you?"

Emma stared at Ruby across the weathered oak, smoothed to an almost mirror-like shine from years of continuous polishing.

"Nothing," she shrugged.

"So why are your cheeks so pink?"

"It's hot," Emma lied.

Ruby laughed, shaking her head so her long wavy hair spread out over her shoulders. "So it's nothing to do with the two dashing gentlemen who just arrived?"

Narrowing her eyes, Emma folded her arms.

"Come on, I saw they way your eyes almost popped out of your head!"

"They did not," Emma retorted, checking behind her lest they had heard her friend's teasing.

"Fine," Ruby sighed, lifting up her hands in defeat, "But you know it's okay to find some men attractive, Emma. It's not like you're proposing marriage." Then she picked up a cleaning rag and walked away.

Emma let her arms fall onto the bar top. Marriage? Yeah, that was hilarious. It had been a hell of a long time since she had considered that a possibility. Now that state of union resided in the area of her mind that she named 'not a cold chance in hell' - laying alongside all possibility of her ever being able to totally trust someone again.

/

"Is the ale not to your taste?" Killian asked, his own drink already half gone. Robin shrugged, staring blankly at the tankard in front of him. "Come now, what is it? Surely your sullen mood cannot only be due to my predilection for gambling establishments?"

Robin glanced at his friend, shaking his head softly. It wasn't often Killian looked beyond his own little world, even into the nearby one of his valet. "It doesn't matter."

Killian narrowed his eyes."No… I think it does."

Rolling the cup between his hands, Robin sighed heavily. "It's Marion-"

"Marion?" Killian exclaimed.

"Yes," Robin nodded, "She wrote me recently - well, she has been writing for quite some time now. She wished to know when your tour will be over and I will return. So we can marry." He watched for Killian's reaction, but the prince's face remained blank.

"Oh," he finally said. It had been some time since Robin had mentioned his betrothed. "I thought she was understanding of your duties."

Robin chuckled. "Aye, she is aware. But you know it has been three years now we have travelled and most travels do not last this long. I fear she is losing patience."

Killian reached over the table and shoved his friend gently on the shoulder, "Already nagging you before you have even shared vows. Robin-"

He halted his speech when he saw the pained expression on his friend's face.

He lowered his voice a little. "I'm not ready yet. You know that. I go home and mother will expect me be something I'm not - to marry some dull countess and to retire quietly into the countryside."

She'd hinted as much many times; always excusing his continued absence as some kind of extended royal tour. Every time he visited the kingdom she peppered every conversation about this woman and that and how well bred they were and how much she was looking forward to him taking residence in the Summer Palace and- (He wanted to scream. He loved his mother, very much. But he was not the son she wanted. Or needed.)

"I know," Robin nodded somberly, "And I vowed to remain at your side. But it cannot be so forever."

Mulling over the thought, Killian drained his glass, refilling it, covering the silence that fell between them. He knew he was selfish. He always had been - the consequence of growing up with very few people whom would guide him in more caring ways. Yet Robin was almost a brother to him, and knowing that he was keeping him from happiness was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Give me six months," he finally said.

Robin gave him a cautious look. "And then?"

"And then I will fully endorse your marriage. You will have my blessing and I'll see to it Father rewards you with a suitable position in the royal household."

"Are you serious?"

"Do I ever lie?"

Robin shrugged-

"To you, I meant."

"Not about anything important."

The prince smiled, nodding in amused agreement.

A bright look came over Robin's face. "I must write to Marion-"

"You'll be home in a few days."

"A letter can be there in two."

Killian shook his head. He didn't really understand love. Not like Robin loved his sweetheart. He couldn't imagine having someone to answer to, such as a wife. "Then go now, I can mind myself for a night."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye aye," Killian insisted, shooing him away with his hand. "I promise not to burn the place down."

/

Through good fortune -or perhaps studied effort- Emma had managed to avoid the side of the tavern where the gentlemen sat. A small swarm of fishermen had descended not long after she had served them and it provided a welcome distraction from dwelling on Ruby's words or her burgeoning curiosity about who they were.

Emma's inquisitive nature was something she had tried to quell since childhood. She just couldn't let things lie, was how one of her foster mothers had put it. Yet it had done little but get her into trouble and lead down paths with dubious endings. So she tried to restrain herself, even when the urge arose to follow her instincts and pursue information.

Her inordinate concern over who or what these strangers were, and the unwelcome attraction she felt when she had met this Killian earlier that day, caused her to cast a wary glance in their direction from time to time.

So she noted when their pitcher was refilled. She observed that Killian drank his ale much faster than his companion. She watched with interest when the man he called Locksley left. But Killian remained, nipping at his ale, his coat now removed and his well formed body clearly visible beneath the tailored, crisp white shirt and sharp grey waistcoat he wore. Hidden in the shadows a moment, she allowed herself to look over over him. His strong jaw and tanned skin was reminiscent of a movie star. Most men in these parts were gnarled and roughened, even the young ones. Yet he was so fresh and handsome, with his tailored clothing and -

 _Hell,_ she would drive herself mad if she continued thinking this way. He was attractive and rich. But she wasn't some gold digger! She wasn't interested him in anything more than something pretty to look at for a little while. Although now The Rabbit Hole somewhat busy, all the patrons had been served and could manage without attention for a few minutes. Emma tugged off her apron, hiding her purse within the folds of her dress, waving at Ruby and pointing to the back room. She needed a break.

Slipping behind the curtain that separated the bar from the living area, Emma reached for the bottle of rum that Granny kept for herself in the small dresser adjacent to the small table. She wasn't much of a hard liquor drinker, but she strangely found it cleared her head. It blocked out some of the more wandering thoughts she found in her mind. As long as she was sparing in the measures she drank.

The rum went down easily, sickly sweet on her tongue. After a few moments, her stomach felt pleasantly warm. More sips followed as she absorbed the gentle hum of chatter from the bar.

" _Henry_ ," she whispered to herself. He was all that mattered. Keeping him safe. Protecting him. Bringing him home. Everything else was just… distraction.

She replaced the cork in the bottle and checked her reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. Perhaps she did look a little flush, but now she could blame the rum.

/

Quite how he had slipped into a game of Liar's dice with a trio of fisherman he wasn't entirely sure. All he did know was a few courteous greetings had extended to an invitation to share his ale which had transitioned into a bit of gambling. The money was bit-change to him, a few small coins that he would usually toss into the gutter where they lingered in his purse. But he was in a jovial mood, buoyed by his generosity towards Robin and quite enjoying the plain conversation with these simple folk.

"Now then, Killdean-"

"Killian," he corrected when the oldest of the men addressed him. He wore a thick woollen cap and had the coarse skin of a man who had spent his life outdoors. Killian studied his face as he smiled, his thin skin gathering into folds upon his cheeks.

"Aye, that's it. What brings you to these parts?" He paused to shake the cup holding the dice.

Killian followed suit, briskly rattling the contents of his own cup. "I have a penchant for travel."

The other man laughed, "There are far more exciting places to travel to than Doveport, believe me!"

"I'm a man of particular tastes," Killian replied enigmatically before making his bet.

"Most assuredly!" one of the other men laughed and followed suit.

He refilled their glasses and concentration soon fixed on their game. The two younger men quickly lost all their dice and Killian called over a bottle of rum from the brunette waitress with the curving red lips. He was aware that the other lass was conspicuous in her absence from their table. Strange, he thought as they each took a draft from the bottle. Himself and the fisherman rolled their dice beneath the cups, each taking a glance at their hand. He was impressed by the blank expression his opponent managed to hold. But it was no match to Killian's dice. Within a minute he had conceded defeat.

"I guess it's not my day," the fisherman sighed as he counted out a handful of coins. Killian laughed, scooping his winnings into his purse and laying back in his chair. Winning was winning, no matter the circumstances, or the value of the loot. The other men soon excused themselves back to their table as he made to finish the flagon of rum. It was still early enough to get to the gambling establishment he had been told of. The best tables did not usually start until long after midnight.

"I saw that," a low voice whispered.

Startled, he looked up to see the mysterious lass. She had her hands on her hips and her brows arched in reprobation.

"Saw what?"

She clucked in disapproval, sinking to sit opposite him, fingers of both hands interlinking beneath her chin.

"This is a decent establishment. I can overlook a lapse of judgement, but I will not see loyal customers duped."

Killian stared at her. He'd seen a hint of this spark in the market, but then she'd seemed so meek and quiet when she'd served them the ale. How strange.

"I do not know to what you refer," he drawled, a lazy smile lacing his lips.

Her eyes rolled, making him chuckle deep in his throat.

"Keep the dice in your pocket," she sniped, making to stand.

"Wait-" he called. She paused and let her hands fall to the table. "I meant no harm. Just looking for a little enjoyment, you know how it is?"

Her silence intrigued him even more.

"How about you join me? A drink to make amends."

She looked warily at the bottle in his hands.

"I don't think so."

He quirked an eyebrow, shuffling with something beneath the table before spilling a pile of coins between them.

"I will compensate you for your time. How much to accompany me for an hour?"

She stood and stared at the coins with disgust. Then, snatching the bottle of rum from his hands, she used her free palm to slap him sharply across the cheek. "I am not a whore," she snapped, nostrils flaring as her brows raised.

"That's not what I-"

He made to stand too, but she was quicker, grabbing his coat and tossing it to him.

"I didn't meant to insult you lass, I merely wanted to learn your name and for us get to know each other."

"Not everything can be bought you know." She paused, looking him up and down with a mixture of disgust and confusion. "Even for one as wealthy as you."

Next he knew she was bundling out of the door into the dampened streets.

Logic told him that he should be angry with this lass and her accusations (no matter how true they are).

Instead, he was intrigued.

 **A/N: More intrigue, more plot building... things start to get more interesting from now on. I hope you can stick around for the ride and let me know what you think.**


	4. A Prelude

As she slammed the door, Emma's palm stung from the contact with Killian Jones' cheek. In truth, she had known that slapping him was an overreaction. But it was too late for regrets over things done in the heat of the moment. It wasn't like she was expecting to see him again in The Rabbit Hole. His type only ever passed through Doveport; they concluded their business and left the town quickly. There was nothing of interest for the rich to stay there very long.

She passed the next few hours in somewhat of a blur: the fisherman were jolly and insisted she and Ruby join them when the other remaining customers had left. It turned out they were celebrating an exceptionally good catch that they had managed to get into shore just before the storm hit. They were good, decent men, who sweetly teased the two women, telling them if they were only younger they would be asking them to go courting. Ruby and Emma took it all in good humor, sharing rum with the men and enjoying some of their tales of lives spent tracking the best saltwater fishing spots along the nearby coasts.

Ruby was yawning most prodigiously by the time the last man left, so Emma had insisted that she retire immediately, offering to finish tidying the tavern herself. She didn't mind. In fact she quite liked having the bar to herself. After the din of voices and tankards slamming against tables, it was pleasantly silent; only the occasional chime of the clock tower in the market square and sometimes footsteps passing by to disturb the quiet. It was quite nice, in a way, having the place to herself. She felt like she could breathe easier. No one was watching her.

The closing routine had been well ingrained by Granny. Gather the tankards and cups. Wipe the tables. Place the benches and chairs on the tables. Sweep the floor. Wash down the bar. She could do it without thinking.

As she worked, Emma let her mind wander as she hummed a tune she remembered from when she was a kid. "Baby bye, bye, bye…" she sang. Damn she missed the music from home sometimes.

Dragging a thick rag over the table where Killian had sat, she couldn't help but think back to the look on his face after she'd slapped him. There wasn't anger there, just… disappointment? Had he really just been asking to spend some time with her? If so, he certainly could have expressed it in a less coarse way, she thought. She was probably just imagining it. It had been a long time since any man had been interested in actually getting to know her (except in a physical sense, but that was something else entirely).

She moved onto the other tables, working efficiently and quietly, as if in somewhat of a daydream. So at first she thought she was imagining the banging on the door. But the sound of something pounding on the heavy oak and the rattling of the bolt that secured it continued and assured her it was very real.

"We're closed," she called out, trying not to be too loud lest the sound carried up to the bedrooms. She turned back to her cleaning but the banging continued. Tossing the rag aside, she sighed heavily and trudged to loosen the heavy bolts and turn the iron key. An annoyed grimace on her face, she grabbed the dagger from her boot and yanked open the door. "I said we are-"

The words died on her tongue when she saw the blood-smeared face of Killian Jones in the doorway.

"You?" she cried, clutching the dagger tighter as she peered behind him into the darkened street. He answered her with a wide smile, his white teeth shining bright against the night.

"I appear to be in need of assistance," he explained, gesturing to his face. She saw that his hand was also covered in drying blood.

"This is not a physician's house - perhaps you are too drunk to remember?"

"Alas, I have my full faculties," he winced, carefully touching his bruised cheek.

"Then I'm sure your friend from earlier should be the one to help you," she quipped, going to shut the door. He placed his foot in the way before she could close it, however.

"Please," he begged, "Just let me tidy myself up."

She quickly licked her lips and played out a small debate in her mind. Really, she should kick him in the shin and slam the door. She knew next to nothing about him. He had clearly been involved in some altercation. Could she even trust him? But she had her dagger. And if she screamed the other women of the house would be there in a few moments-

"Fine," she conceded, opening the door, "But I'm not taking my eyes off you for a second."

"I would despair if you did," he grinned as he ducked under her arm and towards the bar.

"I'm going to regret this," she told herself as she re-latched the door. She tucked the dagger into her apron and turned back to him. "Sit down," she ordered.

"Yes milady," he nodded, in a manner bordering on mocking, but there was a glint in his eye that said he was merely teasing. Emma pointed to a stool and he pulled it down from the bar and sat. Breezing past him, she headed behind the curtain, pouring out a bowl of water and picking up a few towels.

He was waiting, with his coat already removed, when she returned. From the lantern light she could see his injuries a little better. The blood on his face was coming from his nose and there was minor bruising around his left eye. His right hand was bloodied and the knuckles were scraped raw. He'd obviously punched someone or something.

Slamming the bowl of water down on the bar, she gave him an annoyed look. "If you're gonna bloody my towels, the least you can do is explain what you are doing here," she said as she soaked one of the towels in the water and passed it to him.

"A disagreement over some dice," he winced as he pressed the towel against his hand.

Emma snorted as she soaked another towel. "You tried to fool the locals around here with those dice?" He shrugged. "You're an idiot," she sighed.

"I prefer dashing rapscallion."

"I bet you do," she muttered.

She overlooked his attempt to flirt and squeezed the water from the second towel. "I still fail to understand why you've turned up here at this hour. Where is your friend? Or does he even know what you were up to?"

Killian looked down at the towel. It was now turning pink as the dried blood was washed away.

"I'll take that as a no," she quipped.

"He knows where I was."

"So why are you hiding your injuries?"

He looked away, clenching his injured fist. And right there Emma saw beneath this man's armor. A flicker of expression on his otherwise blank face. He was ashamed.

"You're worried what he'll say…"

With a shrug, he continued cleaning his hand. "Robin Locksley is rather judgemental and after the night I've had I'd rather not have to listen to his sanctimonious twaddle right now. And not knowing any other in this town, I thought you seemed the type willing to assist a friend in need."

"I'd barely call us acquaintances, Jones, nevermind friends."

He smiled, "You remembered my name. And we've met three times now. Surely I'm growing on you?"

"Like a fungus."

"But a very handsome fungus," he said, raising his eyebrows in a way she was sure was designed to be enticing but actually had her holding back the urge to laugh.

He took up the clean cloth and began to dab at the blood on his face. He wasn't doing a very good job, instead of clearing it away he was smearing it further across his skin. It was then she realized she was staring, and her cheeks grew warm.

"You aren't looking too hot right now, buddy," she replied, turning away to tidy the tankards and cups behind the bar. "Quite the shiner you got there."

"The other man got off more severely, I assure you." He continued trying to remove the blood until it was quite ingrained into his beard.

"I should see the other guy, right?" She gave a wry chuckle. She glanced back at him to see he was still struggling. "You're making a mess."

"It's a little difficult when I can't see what I'm doing, love."

She pulled the towel out of his grasp and muttered "Let me do that, will you? And don't call me love."

"My apologies," he grinned. "Though this would be much easier if you told me your name."

Emma dipped the towel back into the bowl, the blood on it swirling into the water as she considered him, this strange man. This stranger. This curious person who she couldn't quite work out.

"Ah, silence."

She gave him a terse look, letting herself stare into those blue eyes of his for the first time since she'd let him back into the tavern. Damn they were pretty. Blue eyes were rare around these parts; she hadn't seen a pair that shade since she had left Arendelle.

"Emma," she said, without thinking.

"Emma." He nodded and smiled softly, "Nice to make your acquaintance."

Leaning over the narrow bar, her hand paused midway to his face, when she suddenly noticed the soft cologne he wore, woody and with a hint of spice. Most men - and women - here didn't bother with fragrances and it took her off kilter for a second. It was intoxicating, sinking into her much the way his blue eyes seemed to penetrate her soul. Her face was mere inches from his. His handsomeness assaulting her in an unwelcome way.

"Thank you," he whispered softly. Sincerely. "For your help."

Tearing her gaze away from his, she shrugged softly. "Couldn't have you leaving a trail of blood outside. Or waking up Granny with all that banging."

"Granny?" he asked, scrunching his brow.

"Oh, um Mrs. Lucas - the owner. It's what we call her."

"So she is not really a relative?"  
"Nope."

She silenced him by beginning to remove the lingering blood from his skin, wiping in short, hard strokes that she was sure must sting. But he didn't flinch. Instead the only sound was his steady breathing as she worked.

"Not from around here, then?" he finally said as she rinsed the towel.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Perhaps I would."

Her blush rose at his suggestive words. She rubbed the back of her hand self consciously against her cheek. "Well I know _you_ aren't."

"You're very evasive, Emma"

Placing her empty hand on her waist she snapped, "Why do you care?"

His eyes darted over her face, like he was looking for something. Perhaps some kind of answer from her that she wasn't giving him to his prying. Finally he dropped his gaze and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "Just making conversation."

She folded over the cloth and started removing the blood from his beard. She was less careful this time, grinding the rough towel into the hairs. He groaned when she reached the bruised part of his cheek.

"Maybe you'd be better just shaving this off."

"Not bloody likely."

"Men," she sniped, shaking her head at his vanity.

"Careful love, that attitude smacks of bitterness."

In response, she pressed the towel even harder into his skin, flashing him a sweet smile as he growled low in his throat.

It didn't take too much longer to finish cleaning him up. The blood was gone but the damage to his eye, nose and knuckles would be clear in the daylight. "I'm not sure you're going to be able to hide this from your friend."

Killian shrugged whilst Emma wrung out the towels and tossed them into the pile of bar rags that needed laundering. "Doesn't matter."

Before she could second guess herself, she grabbed a bottle of rum and two small sipping glasses. She poured out a measure for each and gestured for him to take one of them. The two tapped the vessels together, and drank. She refilled them.

"Thank you," he said.

Something Emma had learned while working at The Rabbit Hole was how to spot a lost soul. Partly, it was because she was one herself; a person with no real home, always longing for something she'd lost, never feeling quite right- And people like that tended to gravitate towards the happy oblivion of alcohol, being such a good way of forgetting. At least forgetting for a little while. This man was so different from her, his life and background so evidently at odds with her own. But she understood him in a way. And understood that sometimes a little rum could soothe what words couldn't.

The rum went down easily, soothing any lingering awkwardness she felt about having this man in her bar, so late at night, with a million questions on her tongue.

After pouring out one more measure each, she pressed the cork back into the bottle. "So why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The gambling," she says, looking him over, watching the way he spins the small cup between his palms, "You don't look like you need the money."

"How do you know this wasn't my first time?" he smirked.

Emma shook her head. "I recognise the look in your eye, the look of someone self destructive."

Killian rubbed his hand over his face, then winces, before answering.

"My they are strong words indeed. Maybe I just enjoy the thrill? It gives one quite the rush when you win."

"And when you lose?" she asked quickly.

"I don't lose."

He finished the last of his drink.

"But when you get caught?"

He gestures to his face.

"Don't you feel just a little guilty taking money from those who need it?"

"The types I generally play with haven't exactly come by their wealth through honorable means."

"Oh, so that makes it okay, then?"

He raised his brows coyly.

"Oh wait, that explains all this then," she smiled, finally deciding she had him figured out. He was a thief. A rogue. Dressed up in pretty packaging, but still the same flesh beneath as any common criminal.

"All what?"

"You're not exactly a gentleman. The money had to come from somewhere."

He smirked again, this time leaning a little closer across the bar. "Oh, I'm quite the gentleman."

Emma was beginning to tire of his endless flirting. If it was meant to flatter her, it wasn't working. She was damn sure this cavalier attitude was all some strange kind of act.

"Does this normally work for you? All this talk and fluttering eyelashes?"

"I find most women like my attention."

"Well I'm not most women-"

"You are not indeed."

She couldn't resist rolling her eyes again. "Alright buddy, time's up. I did my good deed for the day, you look a little less like you've been beaten up and _I_ need to lock up."

Although she was waiting for a sharp reply, she found herself somewhat disappointed by his gentle nod and whispered, "Of course love."

Damn she wished she wasn't so affected by what he did - or didn't - do. This was all so stupid and silly and - hell she had no time for that.

By the time she had returned to her senses he had replaced his coat and was righting his shirt and vest beneath it. Emma rounded the bar, trying to avoid traitorous glances at the way the coat tugged over his shoulders and the slender fit of his pants.

"You can look," he teased as she began to unlock to door.

"I wasn't-"

Before she could finish, he was beside her, his hand moving to loosen one of the bolts, his handsome face only made more appealing by the emerging bruises.

"Sorry. Habit."

Focusing back on the door, she turned the heavy key as he undid both bolts. Their hands glanced against each other as she went to take the door handle. A hot spark flew through her body. He opened his mouth as if to say something.

"Goodnight," she whispered, pulling on the door before he could speak, letting in the damp, night air.

"Goodnight. And once again, thank you."

Then he took her hand, pressing a featherlight kiss to it that had her heart racing and her arm recoiling from his touch. Unable to speak, she simply nodded and allowed herself one more swim in his eyes before he slipped out into the darkness.

Her hands shook a little as she closed and secured the door. She was quick to blame the rum she had drunk. After a few moments to calm herself, she headed back to the bar to tidy up.

"Emma!" came the sound of Granny's voice from the staircase.

" _Shit_ ," she whispered, scurrying to meet her. "Yeah?"

The curtain peeled back to reveal the old woman, wrapped up in a faded robe and peering at her through her tiny, wire rimmed glasses. "I heard voices."

"Oh," Emma shrugged, "It was just me. Talking to myself."

Granny slowly nodded… until Emma glanced at the two cups and open bottle of rum and the old woman's gaze followed suit.

"I haven't finished cleaning the bar yet," she babbled, watching Granny's eyebrows shoot up.

"Uhuh," she hummed, pulling her robe tighter around her. "Pity, I thought it was a man's voice. 'Bout time you quit this strange chastity thing. Girl like you deserves a good man."

Sighing, Emma could only smile softly. "I'm happy alone."

"You tell yourself that, sweetheart."

A moment later, Granny reached over and patted her cheek, before retiring back up the stairs. Emma finished cleaning, lingering only a little when picking up the cup he had used.

She _was_ happy alone. The only man she needed was Henry. She just wished other people would understand that.

/

It was light by the time she woke. She'd overslept, a rare occurrence but understandable considering how late she had stayed up cleaning and then reliving the events of the evening in her mind. She tried to stretch out her legs but there was something in the way. Yawning, she sat up and stretched her arms, looking at the foot of her bed to see what was there.

A basket. More specifically, a wicker basket, lined with a checked linen cloth, inside of which she could see a selection of fresh, glossy pastries. Ruby or Granny must have dropped it in when she was sleeping. There was a note attached, addressed to herself and sealed with red wax. She broke open the seal, curiosity burning.

It couldn't be from him…

 _Emma,_

 _A small gift to atone for my behavior this past evening._

 _Your dashing acquaintance,_

 _K. Jones_

Despite herself, she smiled, her stomach grumbling as she chose a pastry from which to take a large bite.

* * *

A/N: If you can, let me know what you think. Feedback makes me so happy (and a better writer!)


	5. The Heir and the Spare

"You can save your breath. I know what you are going to say," Killian grimaced, as a a shaft of thin light shone onto his face.

Robin merely shrugged as he opened the door to their lodgings. "I wasn't going to say a thing."

Tossing him a sceptical glance, Killian slipped inside.

The lantern Locksley held in his hand was set to its lowest level of brightness and it swung as he locked the door behind the prince. The light danced around the walls of the small living room that adjoined the bedrooms, casting eerie shadows when it moved over the furniture of the lounge. But Killian was too preoccupied to notice. Heavy with tiredness he began to remove his coat, tossing it on a nearby chaise before sinking wearily into an overstuffed armchair.

Robin watched him carefully, noting the bruising on his friend's face and creating his own narrative of the evening's events based upon past precedent.

"I take it our time in this time town must be curtailed?"

With a grimace, Killian nodded. "Aye. I should make myself scarce… for now."

"We'll leave at first light," was Robin's quiet reply. He lit another lantern and placed it in front of Killian. The two men's eyes met, and in that moment, Killian only wished his friend would call him out- berate him for his behavior. Instead, he had to see a look of sadness and resignation that was all the more painful than words could have been.

With a final curt nod, Robin silently slipped into his own room and left Killian alone with the dim lantern and his thoughts.

As his friend's door closed, Killian pressed his face into his palms. Robin was never overt in his disapproval, but that didn't mean that Killian didn't feel it keenly. He wished he could be different sometimes, if only for this reason. But disappointing those who cared for him seemed a speciality of the prince and it was especially hard when so many of those around him were such decent, upstanding men. Like his brother.

Perhaps part of the reason why Killian had become so close to Robin was his similarity to Liam. The elder prince was honorable and noble and all the things a leader should be. He knew his duty and played the part of the loyal son as no other could. Certainly far better than Killian ever could. Robin was just as worthy; made evident by his early elevation to the role of knight by King Brennan. He was a good a man as there ever were and quite what Locksley saw in him, Killian never rightly knew. But since their meeting some ten years previous, they had become fast friends and when Killian embarked upon an extended tour he was the obvious choice for a companion.

Acting as a counterbalance to Killian's more wild urges, Robin kept him from the worst excesses and acted as a conscious where one was needed. He was level headed where Killian was reckless. He always was thinking of consequences where Killian lived fully in the moment. That's not to say he was a _boring_ companion. The two had certainly had their fair share of revelry. However, it was perhaps unlikely that Killian would have made it so far on his travels in one piece were it not for his companionship. Robin was his closest friend in the world. Perhaps the only person he felt an affinity with now that Killian and his brother had drifted apart.

Killian tried to forget his friend's disappointed expression and made his way into his bedroom, quickly undressing and foregoing his nightshirt as he crawled beneath the thick blankets. Their weight was pleasantly comforting against his body, soothing the aches of the day whilst the injury to his face began to gently throb once more. He pressed the cool back of his hand against his cheek and settled back against the pillows.

It had been quite the evening.

Looking back, he was still a little unsure as to how exactly he had been so careless to be discovered with those loaded dice. Quite some time had passed since he had last gotten into trouble when it came to his penchant for tipping the odds in his favor. Yes, he had consumed a fair amount of rum, but nothing he wasn't able to handle. Maybe he was getting a little cocky. He'd be more careful next time.

He turned over heavily, the bed struts groaned beneath the overstuffed mattress.

Because there was always a next time.

Always another tavern, another hand of cards or roll of the dice. Another purse full of unneeded gold. Or not as the case may be. His life was a blur. Not altogether unpleasant, but one which left him generally feeling numb. He was cushioned by status and wealth. There was so little to worry him, so little risk in the comfortable life of a younger son of a youthful King. It was frustrating.

Killian just wanted to _feel_.

Something.

So, he gambled and drank and flirted ( _and more_ ). Seeking that something.

He didn't usually find it.

But that night-

The dim light of the still burning lantern reminded him of the dying embers of The Rabbit Hole's fireplace.

He'd still been dazed from the punch to his face when he found himself wandering back to the simple little tavern before he could think better of it. He knew he would have to return to his lodgings at some point. And the pub was not the usual kind of place he would frequent more than once - and he was sure the place would have been long closed, but he found his feet bringing him there regardless.

And then she'd opened the door.

This woman of few words with the steely green eyes was one reason ( _the reason..._ ) he had wandered back this way. His fuzzy subconscious, pierced by the pain of his injury, had taken him back to her. The lass he had happened on by chance on two occasions. The woman with the golden hair and fierce expression that hid all but the most violent emotions from being expressed (annoyance and suspicion being those he had been able to bare witness to thus far).

He smiled in pleasure as he remembered her cleaning the injury that a disgruntled punter's fist had caused to his face. He could be mistaken, but he was almost certain she had enjoyed the interlude as much as him - well, she had offered him a small drink as a nightcap. That had moment had intrigued him. She had intrigued him, she had to admit.

It was with some surprise, he realized, that this interlude had been his most exhilarating experience of many weeks. The fire in her expression. The way she spoke so freely. There was none of the fear of him or his wealth that most people showed.

She was a breath of fresh air, filling his lungs and distracting him from the usual worries that occupied his mind when he was not medicating himself with a nip or two of rum. And thus the idea that the acquaintance between them would end following his departure from Doveport left him with a peculiar feeling of disappointment.

A sudden idea took hold that had him taking hold of the lantern and slipping from beneath the bedclothes.

Quickly he rifled through the bureau that sat in front of the window until he found the ink and parchment he needed, as well as a stick of sealing wax. His hand quickly began moving across the crisp paper in his curving, elaborate script. He would give it to the innkeeper in the morning, with instructions to have it delivered alongside a basket of the market's freshest pastries. The message he scribbled to Emma was brief but he hoped would raise a smile and keep him in her thoughts.

He quite liked the idea of her thinking of him.

/

Prince Liam had been the apple of his mother's eye since the day of his birth. Born with a staunt cry of immature lungs and with a head of curling blond locks, she was smitten and doted on her longed for son in the way only one so bitterly disappointed with the man she had married could do.

Agnetha Jones had grown up with tales of romance and handsome men who would whisk a commoner away to a life of balls and satin and sparkling jewels and though she herself was not vain or taken with riches, her mother's careful tutoring had soon taught her that her aim in life should be to marry well. Her mother had always ensured she was the finest dressed of the merchant's daughters in the small port town in which she had grown up and the pretty young woman had indeed attracted the attention of many a fine suitor. Men who had wooed her with poems and posies of fresh flowers, with delicate kisses to her hand and fine footwork as they whirled her around the dance floor.

But Agnetha was stubborn, turning down half a dozen proposals until even her kind-hearted father began to despair that she would become an old maid.

For the problem was, you see, deep in her heart she yearned for love. True love. A love that would be talked about for all the ages. A sweeping, maddening love. The kind that would make her heart race and all rational thought flee her mind. She desired the kind of romance she had read about in great novels. She pined at night for the man who would release these feelings within her - because she had to hope that true love was real and that fate would one day send it her way.

And then, one night, she met a young gentleman who had promised her all of this and more.

Brennan had swept into the county ballroom with a debonair smile and silky manners the likes of which were not often seen in the rural parts. The compliments had slipped easily slipped from his tongue as he had requested a dance. His dark, mysterious looks - so different from the inhabitants southern isles - caught her eye and intrigued enough that she had agreed to join him in a waltz. Quickly, he'd beguiled her with tales of travel and history and literature, so much so that after only three dances she fancied herself in love with him already.

Yet the reality was somewhat different for the mysterious Brennan. The only son of an aging king, he was under pressure to marry and continue the royal bloodline. Frustrated at his father's demands, he had taken to slipping away from the castle for weeks at a time, hiding his identity and letting himself pretend he was something more than what tradition and family had planned for him. He wasn't ready for the confines of kingship. He resented the restrictions that his title placed upon him.

Agnetha Jones was only meant to be a distraction to the prince. She wasn't the first lass he had wooed. He enjoyed playing the part of the mysterious stranger rather than the prince and heir. But perhaps it was the wine, or her pretty blue eyes - or her soft demeanor and the belief she would be an obedient and quiet wife-

He'd found himself proposing and the two exchanged vows before he could regret his impulsiveness or she could further consider his true character.

For her part, her initial reaction to the revelation of her new husband's rank was of disbelief. Followed by excitement. Before finally settling into resignation and understanding when it became clear what the duties of a royal consort were: childbearing and demurring to her husband on all matters.

His father was angry at first when he returned to the castle with the young woman in tow. But his silence had softened within days and a formal wedding was hastily arranged and the kingdom of Bretton rejoiced that their crown prince had finally settled down.

Agnetha fell pregnant quickly. Her child was conceived on their honeymoon to Arendelle - a month spent touring the mountainous kingdom: where she soon discovered that Brennan was far from the man she expected him to be. He quickly seemed bored with her; always so keen to disappear from their lodgings when given the chance. Almost never there when she retired to bed, instead crawling beneath the covers hours later reeking of rum - occasionally seeking pleasure in her body which she meekly allowed him, not knowing how to say know to this powerful man.

So when Liam was born and placed into her arms she had decided there and then that the great love of her life would not be her husband. Instead it would be her son.

The prince seemed somewhat indifferent to the infant. Initially he had expressed his satisfaction that he was male and healthy though he spent little time with the child or his mother, instead becoming further drawn into the running of the kingdom as his own father ailed; though still often disappearing for days at a time where Agnetha soon understood he was visiting one of his mistresses.

Oh indeed, they had been married less than six months when she had learned of the prince's predilection for cheap women. But in a way she was relieved. It meant he rarely disturbed her bed chamber.

Unsurprisingly, it was some time before she fell pregnant once more. She had in fact resigned herself to having only one child to dote upon. Accepted that her arms would not feel another infant within them. It had taken his own father's death to bring him back to his wife's bed. The old man had finally succumbed to a weak heart one dark winter night as cold winds swept through the palace's hallways. The castle bell had rung solemnly as a tear-stained Brennan - now King Brennan - had appeared at her door, wordless and broken, his shoulders sagging, his shirt crumpled-

Agnetha's own heart had ached for him. For all his faults, he was still a man and the father of her much loved child. She had pulled him to her breast, and rocked him gently, bringing the pair to lay on her bed as she murmured soft words to comfort him, until his mouth found hers and she let him channel his pain into her, to take her, to worship her body the way he had never done before.

And never did again.

damn!

Seven years, three months and two days after the birth of his elder brother, Killian was born. Dark haired where his brother was light, he had been a difficult child from the outset. He had cried incessantly, though- refusing to feed from his mother who in desperation turned to a wet nurse to quell her son's tantrums.

His father had shown even less interest in the younger boy than he had in his brother. Liam was his heir and he was pleased enough with his growth and education. Killian was of little consequence. He would not inherit the throne and therefore did not require much investment of time from the king. Brennan's own father had impressed upon him that child rearing was woman's work and for the most part he left Agnetha and her team of nursemaids to the task.

As he grew, Killian looked so much like his father. Where Liam had inherited his mother's blonde curls and sharp chin, Killian was the double of the king with his deep brown hair and tawny skin; clearly a son of Bretton. He did, however, share the same clear blue eyes that his brother owned, and when one looked from one prince to the other the resemblance was clear. At least in looks.

Liam was the scholar, the leader, the brave one-

Killian had clung to his brother's shirttails as soon as he could walk. The older prince had borne it with good humour, doting on the small boy, teaching him what he could, reading to him, soothing his nightmares - being the male figure in Killian's life that his father was not.

So Killian spent his formative years learning his place in the pecking order of his powerful family: always in his brother's shadow, always wanting to be just like Liam. To have his mother look at him the way she looked at her eldest son; with pride and happiness. Not with the hint of sorrow he would catch on her face when she didn't know he was looking.

No matter how hard he tried, Killian could not stop the growing feeling as he aged, that he could never compete with his brother - both in character and his mother's affections. So he soon stopped trying.

/

Approaching Bretton was signaled by crossing the great river Titan which had provided a natural defense to the small archipelago in which the capital city - and the kingdom's main castle - were situated. The wide, fast flowing water was now crossed with relative ease by a mighty bridge made of heavy blocks of stone but it has once proved almost impossible to traverse in the flooding of the spring time and barely easier the rest of the year. Combined with the natural harbor that the sweeping bay adjacent to the capital provided, it was a safe place for a fledgling kingdom to flourish and grow.

Killian and Robin had managed to slip into the castle walls with little fanfare thanks to an intimate knowledge of all the secret routes in and out of the palace. A few coins to one of the stable boys had ensured secrecy for the pair a little longer, Robin keen to reunite with his sweetheart and Killian quite happy to keep his appearance from his father for as long as possible.

Heading to his mother's sitting room, Killian was determined to surprise her with his early arrival. He had missed her, no matter how much he would protest returning home. Their relationship had been fraught with difficulties ever since the later years of his teens when Killian had discovered the physical pleasures both of the alcoholic and the female persuasion.

As he wound his way through the palace corridors, he planned what he would say to her, how he would take her hand and kiss it, how he would smile and be the kind of son she wished he were. Even if it were just an act...

Instead of the anticipated meeting, he found himself almost running straight into Liam, who was making his way out of the room as Killian entered.

"Brother, you're back!" Liam said , smiling broadly as he pulled Killian into quick, tight embrace. Killian felt his body stiffen at his brother's affection. A few seconds later the two disentangled and Killian looked down, studying the intricate patterns of the hallway carpet. He hadn't expected his brother to be there.

"I could say the same to you," he said, "I'd heard you were off on some good will mission." He looked up, catching his brother's matching blue gaze.

Killian had missed Liam too. Even though they were no longer close, he looked up to the elder prince and chastised himself frequently for all the ways he had disappointed his older brother.

Liam smiled warmly, his hands resting on the thick leather belt that encircled his velveteen doublet. "I was. Still am, in fact, this is merely a short reprieve, as I deliver some good news to Father."

"News?" Killian echoed, tilting his head.

"Aye," his brother nodded, "It actually relates to my travels." He looked down the hallway and gestured for Killian to follow him. Killian looked warily at his mother's door before retracing his brother's footsteps. He could delay his reunion with his mother for a little while longer.

Liam had stopped at a small alcove where a window paned with diamond shaped glass looked over the Titan which glistened softly in the late spring sunshine, looking peaceful from this distance even though Killian knew those waters to be powerful and the keeper of secret hidden currents.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Liam observed as Killian stood beside him.

"As it ever was," Killian nodded. He watched his brother look down upon the kingdom. Liam would one day be ruler of all this. He wondered what that felt like.

"My news is also of beauty… though of a somewhat different kind."

Killian gave him a queer look. "I am intrigued."

Taking a deep breath, Liam angled his body, resting one hand on the small sill below the window. "Then I shall not keep you in suspense. I am betrothed."

"Betrothed?" Killian echoed, "To whom?"

To say this was surprising news was an understatement. Never had he known his brother to engage in romances or even dalliances with the many women who threw themselves at the brothers. Instead, he was always focused on his royal duties and preparing himself for his future role. Killian would have wondered if women really took his fancy, if he hadn't stumbled across him exchanging kisses with an Agrabardian princess after a ball when they were younger.

"The queen of Arendelle. Lady Elsa."

Killian tried to draw up an image of the regent of their neighboring kingdom, but he struggled. It had been some years since he had made her company and she had been but a child then. Liam had represented the family at her coronation a few years previously and he did not recall any particular inclination of his brother to the newly crowned queen when he had returned to Bretton.

"Then I'd say congratulations brother. Though I must profess my surprise, I did not know you were intimately acquainted."

"Thank you," Liam nodded, a deep breath puffing up his chest, "And I must confess the association between us is newly formed. My tour took me to Arendelle on official business just this past month."

Eyes widening, Killian said, "That is quite the whirlwind. Did the queen sweep my brother off his feet?"

Liam shrugged. "You know that is not the way of these things, brother."

Slowly Killian brought his hand up to rifle through his wind ruffled hair. So, their parents had finally convinced his brother to marry for convenience. He had known it was only a matter of time, but Killian still bristled at the idea of being bound to a woman he didn't care for.

He'd already seen what such an arrangement had done to his mother.

"Then I'm sure father will be very pleased. Arendelle is an important neighbor and your marriage will be most convenient."

"Killian-" Liam reached forward to place his hand on his brother's shoulder and then seemed to think better of it. "You know it's expected of me. If not Lady Arendelle, it would have been another. Times are hard for all the kingdoms."

"I understand," Killian replied blankly. But that was only half true. He chuckled. "But you know, I always thought you would be different. That you would marry for love." He shrugged. "Mother would have liked that."

Liam nodded slowly. "Aye she would. But Lady Elsa is beautiful and intelligent, perhaps one day it will-" He looked off into the distance, through the twinkling panes of glass. "I've as much chance with her as any. Let you be the one who marries for love. I'd enjoy seeing my little brother bewitched by something other than rum or a good hand of cards."

Killian laughed. His brother knew him better than he gave him credit for.

The laughter faded as they heard the footsteps of someone approaching along the stone-lined corridor before they turned off in another direction.

"Well it's a shame I am not the marrying kind," Killian replied, raising his brows.

"Don't say that."

"Why not, it's the truth. I have no interests in tying myself to one woman."

"You do not wish for a family then? And for the love you talk of?"

Placing a firm hand on his brother's shoulder, Killian beamed, "I can barely take care of myself, Liam, what good would I be with children of my own to care for?"

Liam looked into his brother's eyes and Killian immediately closed off that access point to his soul - those clear blue portals into his innermost thoughts that Liam had used to suss out of his little brother since they were children. He blinked twice, looking away.

"Give it time," his brother insisted. "I know you Killian - you do everything with such passion. You live with such fervour. I can't believe a soul such as yours does not have a counterpart somewhere in this world."

/

Following his meeting with his brother, Killian abandoned his previous quest to seek his mother's audience and instead he took one of the servants staircases down into the herb garden which abutted the kitchen. It had been a favorite hiding place of his as a child, a place where he could escape his tutors amid the fragrant leaves. A place where he could think.

He chose an aging bench of rusting iron work and sat.

 _His brother was marrying._

Things were changing. After years of status quo and of timeless months when he could have half convinced himself that nothing would ever be different, the inevitable was upon him. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about it.

A shadow crossed over him. He looked up, hissing gently when he saw the cause of the intrusion.

It was his father.

"Killian. You are back."

"Very observant," Killian snapped back in reply, cursing his bad luck in crossing paths with him so soon.

Without replying, King Brennan took a seat next to his son. The two sat in silence for long enough for Killian's blood pressure to rise and the desire to extricate himself from his father's company almost unbearable.

"I take it you have heard your brother's good news."

"I have heard he is betrothed, if that is to what you refer."

The king nodded and hummed his approval. "It's a fine, fine match. Something I have long desired for the kingdom."

Killian huffed and fidgeted in his seat. "Or for Liam? Or does he not factor in this decision."

Brennan laughed softly. "Liam knows what is expected of him. He will be king. He has the best interests of the kingdom in his mind."

"Oh, you have trained him well."

He felt his father's gaze upon him.

"One success can almost atone for another failure."

Killian didn't need clarification. His father's disappointment in his younger son since he had come of age had never been a secret.

"Why did you call me back here?"

Brennan turned his attention back to the garden in front of them.

"Your mother pines for you."

"Since when have you cared for my mother's feelings?"

"I am not as unfeeling as you believe me to be, Killian."

"And I am not as gullible as you wish I were, _Father._ "

Another moment of silence passed between them. Killian could hear the servants in the nearby kitchen as they began to prepare for that evening's meal.

"People were talking. Your absence was becoming hard to explain."

" _Oh_. I was under the impression you liked me making myself scarce."

"It was necessary. You know that."

"Well now they can all see I am alive and well, not dead in some ditch, and you can fabricate another reason for my next disappearance."

Killian made to stand but was stopped by his father's next words.

"This can't continue indefinitely, Killian. Time will come when you will need to attend to your responsibilities to the kingdom."

"You have Liam for that," Killian said, rising and making to leave.

"You are a son of Bretton, Killian, you have duties as well."

Looking back, he gave his father a distasteful glance. "You have your heir, your highness. I've always known I was no more than a spare to you. Let's not pretend I have any greater importance in this game. And now your dutiful son is engaged, I doubt it will be much longer until he produces children of his own and you can forget, perhaps, that I even exist."

With that, he turned on his heel and headed back into the castle.

/

He kept walking. Pausing only to check for the pouch of coins he had attached to his belt. Walking out through the unmanned north gate of the castle, down towards the docks and the poorest, seediest part of the capital. Following the stale stench of ale mixed with fish guts and the damp salt air of the sea.

There, he found an anonymous tavern, its name faded away from the sign above the door, from the weather or neglect, he didn't know. Inside he chose a table hidden in an alcove so that he could reasonably assume he was hidden from most patrons.

After beckoning for the serving lass to come his way, he had tossed her a handful of coins and relieved her of the flagon of rum she carried in her hand. He didn't bother even looking at her nor did he make use of the pewter cup she had laid before him. Instead he pulled out the cork, wrinkling his nose at the cheap alcohol before pouring a liberal amount down his throat.

Rum (or ale or whatever he could lay his hands on) had long been the soothing balm of choice for Killian. It helped him think. Or not, as the case may be.

Damn he wished to high heavens that his father would no longer have such an impact on him. He was a grown bloody man! Long since past adolescence! A man who knew his own mind... Yet still felt the sting of his father's disapproval with the keenness of a young boy reeling from the sharpness of his first spanking.

It was with more than a little irony that he supped back more rum. He was quite the self-fulfilling prophecy; always destined to be the dirty secret of the family. And it that was the case he would do so in style. He planned to get rolling drunk and then stumble back into the castle, hopefully creating a delicious scene that would cause enough uproar to have his father sending him on his way again at the soonest opportunity.

Soon the rum was gone - the flagon had been barely half-full when he arrived. The serving lass returned. He wasn't sure if she knew who he was but he was aware that his clothes at least told her he was a man of wealth. She kept her eyes down. He could see she was a pretty young thing - her copper colored hair neatly pinned back, restrained beneath a net, her pale skin smattered with watery freckles that matched those on her forearms and her lashes were translucent enough to be almost invisible. Yes, she was pretty, but something was amiss. There was no fire - no sparkle in her. Even when she raised her eyes and he saw into her pale, blue eyes, he saw nothing.

It was impossible not to compare her to another serving lass, in another dockside bar, in another kingdom.

 **A/N: As always, reviews and feedback mean the world to me and spur me on to continue!**


	6. Boys

"You can go Emma, I told you last week."

Granny Lucas looked up from the musty, leather-bound ledger in which she was adding the figures for the last night's takings. Her glasses had slipped down her nose and the quill she was using was currently lodged between the thick strands of her loosely chignoned grey hair; combined with the look of concentration on her features she was quite the formidable spectacle.

Emma, who had been engaged in sweeping the private areas of the tavern, paused, her fingers tightly gripping the broom. "I can't," she said.

With a frown, Granny fixed Emma with a disapproving glare, "That son of yours needs his mother. It's been almost six weeks since you last went."

"We're too busy," Emma insisted, "You and the girls-"

"Will manage, as we always do."

In Emma's defense, Doveport _had_ seen an increase in sea traffic in the past few weeks. Now that spring was beginning to fade, the trade routes to the east and west which crisscrossed near the small town had become busier. More ships were making port and the tavern had been packed almost every night. But perhaps the real reason for her reluctance was she was unsure whether her son would want to see her so soon. They hadn't parted on the best of terms and he had only written twice in the interim - both letters more lists of events that had happened in her absence, with no reference to the disagreement that had passed between them.

Ignoring the woman's words, Emma restarted her chores, sweeping the bare floorboards with short, strong strokes that sent particles of dust spiraling upwards creating dizzying patterns as the early afternoon sun streamed in through the shutterless windows.

When she had first came to Doveport she had made sure to return to the small village where Henry had remained at least once a month. He was well cared for there, that she knew. But he was still such a small boy and he needed his mom.

And she missed him.

The separation had become easier as he aged and she became accustomed to the distance. The letters he sent her helped too. Slowly, the trips had slipped in frequency. It took over half a day to reach Seaton by hire carriage and then a two mile walk. In order to make it a worthwhile endeavor it required her to take at least three days away from the tavern. Which meant three days less earnings and being three days less closer to her goal.

And she was so close.

(Kind of.)

/

It wasn't often that Emma thought of Henry's father, but that afternoon, sitting in the small courtyard of the tavern, she soaked up the gentle spring sunshine and let herself indulge in the past.

She was seventeen when she met him.

(That was what her birth certificate said. Or what _counted_ as her birth certificate. She'd been found, abandoned, by the side of a rural road; only hours or days old. She wasn't sure when she had _actually_ been born.)

But sometimes life has a funny way of making you grow up fast. And a childhood of innumerable foster homes and broken promises certainly qualified. It was a life that hadn't broken her spirit, but had made her distrusting and closed off to all but the most persistent.

By her mid-teens, she was an expert in escaping foster care - only returning to her foster parents by coercion. Until sometime when she was sixteen they just seemed to stop trying. Figures, she had thought. Her own parents hadn't wanted her, why would anyone else? Thankfully, Emma Swan was smart and a quick learner. The street had a thriving underground of people just like her who did what they had to do to theft wasn't perhaps the most decent way to live but a high school dropout with no other options had little choice.

And theft was how Neal Cassidy had came into her life. Well, attempted theft. After a botched attempt at stealing an old VW bug (which, it turns out, he had already stolen) and some sweet-talking of a police officer things had led to a coffee date on the swing set at a nearby playground after dark. There they'd talked and shared a little of themselves.

He was so different from anyone she had ever met: impulsive and confident with a way of making her feel like anything was possible. He had wavy brown hair and soft hazel eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He did that a lot; smiling, laughing… It was like nothing could phase him. She liked that. It somehow made her forget about the worries of her past and live in the moment.

Emma had started falling for him before her paper cup was empty.

And even though he was a few years older than her, he had this lost look sometimes that made her feel so protective of him- Both of them had no family or anyone else who really mattered to them in the world. So they took care of each other, falling into a quick friendship, which melted into something more in the the car she'd tried to steal, one night during a rainstorm-

Twisted up on the back seat.

Cracked leather scraping against her bare skin.

The windows fogging up.

Trying to be quick in case someone came by-

It was her first time, but he was gentle and kind: she didn't regret it.

Just like she didn't regret her son.

Neal Cassidy was the man she'd thought would be the love of her life.

Until he'd left her.

( _Abandoned_ her.)

One dark, damp night, he ran. Leaving her to take the rap for his petty crimes. Some stupid watches he had stolen.

He'd jilted her for a few thousand dollars worth.

Her love for him had died as she hid from the cop car that chased her through the backstreets of Boston. The tears falling down her cheeks had washed away the hope she had for a better future. She was on her own again.

She'd known for ten years now that he was the person who had disappointed her the most. Which is saying a lot when the relationship had lasted only six months. Hell - shouldn't it be the parents who abandoned her ( _by the side of a road-_ ) be the people she was most ready to blame for her misfortunes?

Probably.

But Neal, well... he was real. Not some story she'd made up in her head, or some faces she'd tried to conjure up by squinting at herself in the mirror. He was real: flesh and blood, with strong arms and a soft laugh and a way of making her feel so safe and also capable of anything while her parents remained faceless images, which she never dared hope to meet in person someday.

God it still hurt sometimes when she thought of him. Though the sharpness of the pain had dulled over the years; it was now more of a sad ache, deep inside. It was especially tart sometimes when she looked at Henry and saw his father's features in the slope of his nose and the way his lips curled upwards.

Finding out she was pregnant seemed like the final kick in the teeth from life. It was like some kind of cruel joke, taunting her about what she could never have.

A real family.

When Henry was born and placed in her arms it had all seemed so surreal. Barely 18, lost, confused, betrayed… _a mother._ Needless to say it was not surprising that she had tried to push him away, sobbing to the midwife that she couldn't be a mother. Because how could a homeless orphan raise a child?

Collecting her thoughts, she went back inside to where Granny was still hunched over the ledger. The old woman lifted her heat as the door closed.

"Go see your boy. He needs you. And you need him."

This time, Emma didn't protest. She knew the old woman was right. She couldn't hide away from her son forever. They were the only family each other had.

/

The last mile of the journey was hard: all uphill and the path barely meriting the name, being barely more than a collection of rocks hastily raked over with the grey surrounding soil. The soles of her feet throbbed painfully in her boots as she trudged along the small street that made up the entirety of the hamlet of Seaton.

The small dwelling had formed many years ago when precious minerals had been found within the ground. Traces of tin, copper and iron had tempted miners from the nearby kingdom of Arendelle to seek their fortunes in the hills that lined the border with the Glowerhaven. The irony of naming someplace Seaport that was half a day's journey from the sea, seemed lost on the founders.

The settlement had quickly grown; buildings tossed up from the timber of the surrounding forests: stores, lodging houses, drinking dens. Eventually those dwellings became more permanent. Farmers arrived to feed the growing population. Until, almost overnight, it stopped. The ground gave up the last of its ores. The number of residents plummeted. The bustling town became a quiet village, far enough away from anywhere important to be forgotten by all but those who lived there.

"Mom?"

Hearing her son's voice made Emma smile instantly and forget the pain in her feet. She picked up her skirts and ran the remaining distance to where Henry stood waving his arms in the air outside the small cottage he called home. A few paces from him, she dropped the bundle she had brought with her and wrapped her arms around her son, drawing him close and thinking how tall he was and that it would only be a few years and she'd have to reach up to hug him.

"Hey kid," she mumbled into his ear, pressing a wet kiss on his cheek. Immediately Henry pulled back, scrubbing at the damp patch with the palm of his hand.

Taking a chance to get a better look at her son, Emma placed her hands on his shoulders. His hair was getting long, curling about his ears. She'd have to make sure Marco took him to get a haircut.

"You look older."

"I am almost 12, Mom," he replied with a roll of his eyes. Shrugging off his mother's touch, he bent down to pick up the knapsack she had discarded. As he stood back up, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," she began, "About my last visit. The fight-"

Her son looked up and she sucked in a breath as she suddenly found herself looking at Neal Cassidy's eyes. "It's fine Mom. Really."

"But-"

"I've talked to Marco. He helped me understand."

"Really?"

Emma's hand loosened their grip on his arm.

Henry nodded.

"So you understand why I have to stay in Doveport?"

He shrugged, kicking the toe of his boot into the dirty path, "I guess. Marco explained how you needed to save money for our future and you couldn't do that here. He said you can make twice as much at the tavern as you could farming or crafting out in the country."

Emma hesitantly pulled away her hand as Henry threw her bag over his shoulder.

"That's right."

"But-"

"Yes?" she asked.

"I still wish I could come with you."

Shoulders sagging with relief, Emma beamed at her son. "I wish that too. But it's so much better for you here. You have space and fresh air and Marco is an excellent tutor. And I promise it won't be too much longer until I have enough."

"You mean that?"

Crouching down until they were eye to eye Emma held out a clenched fist. "One more year. Punch promise."

Grinning, Henry formed a fist with his own hand and tapped it against his mother, before grabbing her hand and tugging her into the small building at the end of the path.

The thatched roof cottage that abuddted Marco's small carpentry studio was freshly whitewashed on the outside and clean as a pin within. Each piece of furniture was expertly handcrafted and finer than anything Emma had seen elsewhere. Marco was a talented carpenter and Emma had sometimes wondered why he had sequestered himself in this small town when his craft was in such demand in the big cities. He could have been a rich man. But she had to concede money had never been something Marco had shown an interest in.

"Surprise!" Emma announced when she saw the silhouette of the old man, stood at the back door wiping his hands on the apron around his waist.

"Emma! You're home!"

This time she let herself be pulled into a hug. Marco was tall and thin with gangly limbs and sharp shoulders but somehow that all melted away when he tugged her close and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

"You just missed August. He left yesterday," he told her as he released his hold on her, running his hands down her arms, almost as if he was looking her over, checking she was okay.

"That's a shame," Emma said, smiling briefly as she moved over to the small dining table where Henry had placed her bag.

"Yeah," Henry piped in, "he was bummed you weren't here too mom. He's almost finished his book now!"

"Really?" Emma sighed, waiting for the subject to change.

August was another member of this household who she had last seen on less than pleasant terms.

Marco's only son, August was a little older than Emma and had become somewhat of a big brother to her when she had first started living with the old carpenter not long after arriving in Seaport.

Emma soon began to learn that he was kind and interesting, if more invested in his books than learning his father's trade. That had disappointed Marco. Emma knew he had long wished his son would one day take over his business. But instead August had left the family home a few years before her own departure to Doveport, determined to seek his own way in the world. He'd returned from time to time - full of tall tales about his exploits that Emma was always a little dubious of (yet Henry loved). At some point, he had decided that his true calling was to be a writer, and to do so he would need to travel even further afield, to experience more so he could write about it. So his absences increased in length.

The last time he and Emma had both been in Seaton had been almost six months ago. The winter weather had been in full swing, bringing with it icy coolness and sheets of rain that sometimes transformed into snow. He had returned from a visit to the Enchanted Forest, full of stories of it's magnificent castles and lakes and tales of the magic that used to reside there. They'd all sat up late around the fire as he talked until Marco had fallen asleep and Henry was barely keeping his eyes open. Emma and August had put their respective charges to bed and returned to the kitchen where Emma had started making a batch of herbal tea.

(Oh how she missed hot cocoa.)

And then he'd kissed her.

She'd dropped the cup in her hand, the china shattering on the bare wooden floor as August professed his love for her, telling her how he had thought of her often, how he wanted her and Henry to come with him, to see the world, to make a fresh start-

Her racing mind was barely able to keep up with his words.

She'd shaken her head, stepping away and grabbing a rag to clean up the mess as he just kept talking.

About how perfect they were for each other and how he could provide and care for her and-

She'd slapped him.

And then shocked at what she had done, she pressed her tingling palm against her mouth to prevent herself from crying out.

He'd stared at her, the bloom of pink streaking across his face in a perfect imprint of her hand.

Silently nodding, he'd knelt down to pick up the pieces of the broken cup.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she wrung out the rag, "I shouldn't have done that."

"It's… It's fine. _I_ shouldn't have kissed you. I clearly saw something that wasn't there."

Her heart had sank.

Did she like August? She'd never thought of him in that way. He was almost a brother. And she and Henry weren't going to be there much longer anyway-

(She hoped.)

"You deserve better than me," she'd told him as the last evidence of the broken cup was removed.

Dusting off his hands, he'd looked her in the eye.

"You're worth a lot more than you think, Emma Swan."

He'd left before any of the others rose the next morning, leaving a note about catching an earlier carriage and promises to write soon.

The whole experience had left Emma feeling unsettled. She'd avoided romance since Henry was born. Not that life in Seaton afforded much chance for that. In fact, she'd grown quite accustomed to that part of her life being over. Even when she had moved to Doveport and met Granny and been given the job in the tavern. Even then she'd never dreamed of truly trusting a man again in a romantic way. Sure, plenty ogled her as she served, and some even tried to touch her. But she never let them get so close, quickly learning how to ward them off with a flash of the dagger Marco had given to her when she had moved or a kick to a sensitive part of their anatomy.

They never saw her in a more than physical way.

That had suited her just fine. Henry was the only man she needed in her life.

(Okay, and Marco. But that was different.)

"How long are you here?" Marco has asked, placing a tin cup full of cool water in front of her.

"Just a couple of days. The tavern is very busy."

"Spring tides," Marco nodded.

"Yeah," Emma agreed as Henry suddenly reappeared.

"Are you going to make it back for my birthday then?" he frowned, taking another of the seats at the small wooden table.

"I'm gonna try real hard, kid."

His birthday was in four weeks and she'd never missed one yet. She'd make it work.

"So what do you want for your present?"

Henry tilted his head, his tongue poking out between his lips as he descended into deep thought. It was times like these that she loved; he was still a kid, still sweet and loving, not yet weighed down with the world.

'I'd really love a training sword."

"A _what_?" she asked, taken aback that her son would ask for a weapon.

"It's made of wood, people used them to learn to sword fight. Some of the other boys in my school are learning. They say it's important in case another war breaks out."

"There hasn't been a war in 50 years," Marco pointed out in his soft drawl.

"It can't hurt to learn, can it mom?" he gave Emma big, pleading eyes, "I need to know how to protect myself."

Emma sighed. Here she was relishing in that fact he was still a child when all he wanted to do was grow up.

"We'll see," she said, which caused a grin to erupt on her son's face, "But if I do agree to this present, I want Marco to arrange proper lessons for you."

"Mom, you're the best," he beamed, giving her a quick hug.

He was gone a second later, running out into the garden to the sound of Marco's gentle laughter.

"Boys will be boys," he sighed.

"Yeah," she nodded, "I guess they will."

/

It felt like she was saying goodbye mere hours after she had arrived. Henry had clung tightly to her, making her promise again that she would be back in time for his twelfth birthday celebrations.

She slept most of the carriage ride home. She was going to arrive in time to work that evening, so she needed all the rest she could muster.

She'd dreamed of Henry growing up.

Of him going home, where he belonged.

Of learning to drive and going to high school and college and all the things she never had for herself. When she woke, she wore a smile of contentment and hope. Maybe it would soon be more than a dream.

She hoped.

The carriage deposited her and the other travellers in the main square of Doveport: not a long walk to the tavern but not one she relished as a cool rain had started to fall. With a grimace, she had picked up her bags and prepared to spend the journey picking her way through the packed-dirt roads that turned into muddy pools with only the slightest provocation.

"May I be of assistance?"

Looking up at the sound of the voice, she shouldn't have been surprised to see the smiling face of Killian Jones looking down at her from a small - but expensive looking - horse and buggy.

"Jones," she said flatly, frowning a little as raindrops began to obscure her vision.

His face fell into an exaggerated frown. "Is that all the greeting I get? I'd have hoped for something more from my dashing savior."

She really didn't want to smile, but it was difficult not to when presented with his ridiculously handsome face pulling such an absurd expression.

Starting to walk away, she called back to him, "Thank you for the pastries."

Of course, he nudged his horse to follow, the large wheels of the buggy easily gliding through the thickening mud. "Ah, so you did get those."

Emma realized that he wasn't going to stop following so she paused and turned on her heel to face him and using her hand to shield her face from the rain. "Can I help you, Jones? I'm in a bit of a rush-"

"I can give you a ride," he suggested, indicating to the empty seat beside him.

Emma's cheeks flushed, as if the idea of being so close to him was somehow dangerous. "That wouldn't be appropriate," she insisted, shaking her head and taking a tighter grip on her knapsack.

"But we are friends, are we not? And friends help each other on occasions such as these." He pointed upward to the sky where the clouds were now an ominous slate grey.

"We're not friends."

"Well I'd say three - no four - meetings now surely makes us more than acquaintances."

She was just about to protest that, _no_ , that is exactly what they were when out of the corner of her eye she saw a figure approaching. It only took a few seconds to recognize the tall, gangly form of Walsh Diggs.

"Is this man bothering you, Miss Swan?"

"Um, no, he's-" Emma looked back to Killian and then again to the new member of their trio. "He's a friend." - She could almost feel Killian grinning even though she was looking at the other man. "Walsh Diggs, this is Mr. Killian Jones, he's new to town. Jones, this is Walsh, he's a shopkeeper."

Killian reached down from the buggy and shook the other man's hand. "So you're in trade? A fine way to earn a living."

Walsh's nostrils flared as he took in the other man. "The best furniture store for 100 miles. You should come in sometime, I'm sure I would have something to your liking." His eyes were wandering over Killian's glossy black horse and expensive ride. It was clear he was wealthy.

"Then I will," he nodded in reply before turning back to Emma. "Are you ready?"

For a second she hesitated. She really hadn't agreed to taking a ride from him, but it was raining and the alternative was staying here and Walsh no doubt insisting he walk her back to The Rabbit Hole.

"Sure," she smiled, tossing him her bag and accepting his hand as he went to pull her up next to him.

She shivered when his gloved hand wrapped around her own, strong and with a firm grip, easily assisting her into the buggy. Quickly she arranged her skirts and her cloak on the seat next to him before waving to Walsh.

"Goodbye."

"Perhaps I will see you soon, Emma? I could call into the tavern later-"

"Oh, we're really busy right now. You know, all the ships…"

"Some other time then?"

Killian had already started the horse moving again as she gave a noncommittal reply. The two rode on in silence for a few moment, now safe from the rainfall Emma felt a chill from her damp clothing.

"There's a blanket under the seat."

Emma looked where Killian said and sure enough there was a woollen blanket, as new as a the buggy, soft and warm, woven from different shades of blue yarn.

"Is that man a sweetheart of yours?" Killian asked as she arranged the material around her shoulders.

"No," she replied, with a little more defensiveness than she would have liked.

"Ah, so you rejected him then?"

"No- I mean, we aren't like that. He's just…"

"A friend?"

Killian turned his head to her, raising his brow in that teasing way she was beginning to recognize.

"Something like that."

The insulation provided by the blanket began to quickly warm her. She bunched the material between her fists and held it tight.

"He wants more. It's very clear. The way he looks at you-"

Emma's cheeks flushed pink at Killian's words.

She was well aware that Walsh liked her. He had been trying to court for the past few months. So far she had managed to avoid having to let him down. She hoped he would take the hint when she was always too busy to talk to him and always finding an excuse to remove herself from his company.

"Well, that's not going to happen."

"Why - someone else caught your eye?"

"Why are you so interested?" she snapped. And almost immediately she regretted her outburst. She had this awful habit of speaking without thinking.

"Just making small talk," he said. "No need to get defensive, love."

Emma shook her head, looking out from the buggy, watching the streets empty as the last citizens sought shelter.

Then she allowed herself to look at her driver.

He was, of course, well dressed as usual. In a tailored coat and trousers that were a tasteful combination of leather, wool and linen. As she glanced at him, she noticed his undershirt and how it was unbuttoned so low that she could see quite the expanse of chest; chest covered in thick, dark hair which had her feeling hot about the collar as a quick image of just how far that hair covered his body flashed through her mind.

She tried to push it away. She would not find him attractive. She couldn't.

"So you're back then."

"You doubted I would return?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," she lied. She had. On more than one occasion.

(Make that several occasions).

"Well it seems I've taken quite the liking to this town."

"I can't see why, it's a very ordinary place," she pointed out as the buggy plowed through a large puddle sending a small wave of water towards the buildings lining the road.

"It has its attractions," he replied and she could feel his gaze on her.

He couldn't possibly be talking about her. Could he? She swallowed back that idea and sought another subject.

"Your face healed well," she finally said.

"Aye, a few weeks and a fine healer did a good job of making me as handsome as ever."

Emma tutted, "You're so arrogant."

"It's not arrogance if it's true."

"I think it still is."

"Ah, so you do think I am handsome?"

He was such a shameless flirt. And by god she wished she didn't enjoy the way he teased her.

Thankfully, she was saved having to reply when they reached their destination.

(She did think he was handsome. Very handsome. But that was beside the point.)

They pulled up outside The Rabbit Hole, the black horse slowing to a stop as Killian gently tugged the reins. The rain was turning heavier now, clattering against the roof of the buggy.

"I am sorry if I pried too much earlier, Emma."

"It's fine," she insisted with a shrug. She pulled the blanket from her shoulders and then reached for her bag. Killian's hand was suddenly on her arm.

"I honestly just want to be your friend."

"Why?" she snorted, at a loss to determine what interest a man such as him would have in a woman like her.

"You intrigue me. I can't figure you out."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Some puzzles aren't meant to be solved," she said with a grimace. "Maybe I don't want to be figured out."

"And maybe I love a challenge," he drawled, somehow urging her to look at him, until for a second she was drawn into the spell that his handsome face seemed to cast. The world seemed to stop. Her breathing hitched. Slowly he pulled the blanket from her lap and in that moment the scent of his cologne seemed to pick up on the wind and she hummed softly as the woody notes wrapped around her.

"Thank you," she whispered, "For the ride." Her eyes fluttered away from his as a her stomach seemed to contract,

"My pleasure," he nodded sincerely.

Then she slid from the leather seat onto the muddy sidewalk outside the tavern.

"We're still not friends," she reminded him.

"But I _am_ growing on you."

She didn't reply.

 **A/N: Yes, lots of backstory again. This is the most plot-heavy story I have ever written and it's certainly a challenge. I feel like I'm setting up a game of chess and need to get all the pieces in place. So we've met most of the main players for this part of the story, next chapter ramps up the action and I promise a lot more of our errant prince and stubborn barmaid becoming entwined in each other's lives.**


	7. Stranger Things

After their meeting in the kitchen courtyard, Killian had managed to avoid being alone in his father's presence for the rest of his time in Bretton. He didn't desire any more reminders of just how useless he was to the king. He had been aware of this for many years. And now with the knowledge of Liam's engagement, he found himself even more troubled than usual. He was, however, a little disappointed that his trip to the tavern had not had the desired effect upon the king. If he had been told about it, Killian was none the wiser. He'd have hoped a spot of drunken exuberance in full view of some of his loyal subjects would have at least ruffled the feathers of the coldly mannered king. But it had not.

As it was, Liam had left again not long after Killian had arrived. He was to return to Arendelle to bring his bride back to Bretton in order that she be introduced to the people of whom she would one day be joint ruler. There would then be a respectable period of engagement - at least six months was thought appropriate - before a state wedding.

And then his brother will have been married off, all in service of the kingdom.

Killian digested the news slowly and with distaste.

"But Mother," he had said on his last evening after joining the Queen in her private parlour, "How can you sit back and let him give his life away like this?"

Agnetha smiled softly at her youngest son. "Oh my dear child, you know just as well as I that our lives are never really our own. And this is not just a burden of royalty. The poor man's life is spent as slave to his debts. A rich man is burdened by greed or a fear of descent into poverty. As rulers, our burden is the noblest of all - to serve those whom look up to us for guidance and care."

Grimacing, Killian stared at the flickering flames adorning the candelabrum that lit the table before them.

"Very pretty words, but none the less they ring hollow to me. Liam has spent every day of his life doing Father's bidding. I abhor the fact that he has not been given a choice as to whom to take as a bride. What if their union is an unhappy one? You cannot wish that upon him."

The Queen stood and walked over to her son. He was sitting on a small chaise, with room enough beside him so that she could also sit. Carefully, she took hold of his hand, smoothing her fingers over the clenched digits.

"This is not just about Liam, is it? He is a good, decent man and from what I hear of her, Queen Elsa is much the same. I do not fear for their happiness. But, Killian, for you I worry."

Glancing at his mother, he saw the tell-tale glassy look of burgeoning tears. Despite just entering her sixth decade, she remained a beautiful woman to behold. Her golden curls had faded over the years but twisted in a chignon about her neck, they still held a regal beauty, their shimmering color mingling with the golden earrings that sparkled as she moved her head. Her figure was slight, almost swamped by the heavy brocade of her deep red dress - the color of red wine - making her seem younger, even if it weren't for her still fair skin and unlined features. All he wanted to do was to protect her.

A wave of shame washed over him and he tightened his grip on her small hand.

"I'm not worth worrying over."

"Oh son," she sighed, her voice cracking. "You have such a low opinion of yourself, yet you advocate so strongly for your brother. Do you not understand that I love you and want you to be happy? I know life has not been easy for you in Liam's shadow, but do not think that the order of your birth affects your place in my heart."

He felt the pain in his mother's words. And the guilt he knew she held.

"I'm sorry for your father," she continued, "I would have wished for a much better -I mean not that he is-" she sighed heavily. "What I mean to say is that I know that your father has been unable to show you the affection and care that he should have. For that I am forever regretful."

There was a small part of Killian that saw this as an opportunity to rebuke his mother for accepting the situation with his father. He'd often wondered how she had remained in such an unhappy union- until sense had made him see what little choice she had. Divorce among royals was unheard of. The best situation would have seen her banished to some distant part of the kingdom to live her life quietly, but that would have undoubtedly left her without her beloved sons. So as wrong as it seemed to his heart, he knew she had quietly accepted her husband's coldness for her sons' well being.

"You need not say these things, Mother. I understand."

"Then tell me how I can help you. All this galavanting around the realms is not making you happy. I want you to find your place in the world. Find purpose. Maybe even love."

Killian let himself smile a little at her words.

"You are too good to me," he replied, lifting her hand to kiss it gently. "I may not have found my place yet, but I have you and _your_ love."

She chuckled softly. "You know I mean you to find wife of your own one day."

"And who would be able to put up with me? The playboy prince? Black sheep of the kingdom of Bretton? I'd say even my vast fortune would struggle to provide temptation under those conditions."

Oh yes, he knew his title and wealth would entice many a minor statesman to push their daughter's affections upon him. Yes, a nice title and the comfort of a kingdom's gold. But the most respectable families already balked at his reputation. And the most noble women would never dare encourage his affections for fear of disgrace.

"Hush now. You are a _good_ man. As good as Liam; as good as any. I know a time will come soon when you will believe that."

"Are you a seer?" he chuckled, unable to imagine a time when he saw himself as anything other than a disappointment.

"Not quite," she replied with an enigmatic smile before shifting in her seat so she was facing him. "Actually, I have a story for you."

Killian raised a quizzical brow.

"Do you remember how I told you that when you were a child, you would never settle?"

"Aye, I do," he nodded, "I guess I've always been a handful."

She squeezed his hand.

"You fussed and cried so much that I was at my wits end and the palace physician was at a loss. Liam had been so quiet… In the past, I would have consulted a witch and asked her to use her powers to diagnose what ailed you. But this was in those months following the great happening - when magic had disappeared and all the magical creatures were in disarray."

"Yes, that was when I was less than a year old, wasn't it? I remember the lessons our tutor gave."

Agnetha smiled, "Yes, one day there was magic, the next it was gone. All the witches, wizards, fairies - all became powerless. There was such confusion about the world. As it was, I ended up turning to your nursemaid for advice. It turns out that her mother was a fortune teller and she assured me of her accuracy with diagnosing the reasons for any malady. With little other recourse, I had her brought to my chambers one day when your father was away on some matter of court or other. And before I told her a word of my troubles, she walked over to your crib and laid a hand on you. You stopped crying right there. It was… magical. She fussed over you for a few moments, mumbling some words I didn't recognize before you drifted off to a lengthy, peaceful sleep. It was merely colic, she said, and she gave me an herbal concoction to aide it." Agnetha had been running her thumb over her son's hand. She paused. "She then told me that she could see your destiny. And that it was a great one."

For a moment, Killian just stared at his mother.

But then he could not hold back a laugh. "And you believed her? Mother, she was taking advantage of your desperation. I'm assuming she also relieved you of a fair amount of coin for this revelation!"

"I'm not done, Killian. She also told me that you would leave the kingdom: that you would travel. And that through these journeys you would meet a woman, one who would not only need your help but would also be your true love. She called her the swan and said that she would carry 'the key', whatever that means. Then together you would achieve something greater than anything we could imagine."

The word rung in his ears.

"Swan?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes.

Swan. Emma _Swan_. A coincidence, surely…

"Does that mean something to you?" she asked, the light of hope brightening her expression.

Killian looked down. Why give her false hope over the ramblings of some old crone? Magic wasn't real. True love wasn't real. Not anymore. And the idea that he would do something great… well, it was insane.

"I merely found it a strange turn of phrase," he lied.

"Oh," she sighed with disappointment, smoothing her free hand over her skirt. "I'd hoped…"

"Talk of destiny and keys and true love… It is a nice story Mother, and I'm glad it gave you comfort when I was a fussy babe. But such a story can only be a tall tale."

She smiled sadly at him, nodding in agreement. "Perhaps. But it gave me hope for you and that was not misplaced or false. I wish you had it yourself."

Straightening up, he flashed an overly bright grin. "I have hope for fine travelling weather."

"You're leaving again?"

He nodded. "As planned. Robin and I leave at first light."

"For how long?" she asked.

"I'll return for the betrothal ball… but further to that, I cannot say."

She didn't question her son any further on his plans, aware that to push and coddle him only resulted in his absences stretching longer. The Queen still held that hope that Killian's destiny would come to fruition and that one day, he would see himself for the man he truly was. Until then, she would give him her love and affection, without cost or expectation.

"Then you must give your mother a hug. For she will miss you."

"Of course," he replied, both standing as she pulled her youngest child into a warm embrace.

/

"Look who's back in town."

"Hmm?" Emma hummed as Ruby pointed at the door opening across the room.

"Blue eyes over there."

"Oh," Emma shrugged, clutching her goblet tighter. "I guess he is." She shrugged nonchalantly and tried to ignore the sight of Killian Jones, out of the corner of her eye, being served by Gwen - the new barmaid that Granny had taken on. Since he had given her a ride back to the tavern earlier that day, she had found herself thinking of him almost exclusively. Not that she had mentioned his return to her friend.

(And she certainly wasn't trying to ignore his interactions with the young serving lass. Oh - she was not sneaking a glance to see if he smiled at her the way he did with Emma. Or if he looked Gwen up and down they way she knew he had done on occasion to herself.)

"So, are you going to talk to him?"

"And why would I do that?" Emma sighed before taking another large sip of rum.

"Because, it's quiet tonight and you, my dear friend, are in desperate need of some attention from the male sex."

Emma laughed, a little louder than she had first intended if the few turned heads meant anything, before she licked her lips and leaned forward. "Men are trouble. Men are liars."

"Says she who has a son!"

"That's different," Emma frowned.

She was bringing up Henry to be one of the good ones. The kind of ones she'd read about in books and saw in movies. Like Gepetto and even August - he had a good heart.

(Perhaps what she really meant was men with whom she could be entangled with romantically were liars.)

"You can't say all men are evil and in another breath contradict that by saying your son is the one exception."

"He's still a child," Emma mumbled.

"They grow up fast."

 _Didn't Emma know it._ She was thinking of Henry's upcoming twelfth birthday when Ruby spoke again.

"Well since you aren't interested, maybe I will go introduce myself."

At that, Emma was instantly snapped from her thoughts.

"What?"

The brunette smiled as she folded her arms. "From time to time I like the company of a gentleman in my bed. Perhaps today is one of those times."

"Oh," Emma replied, regaining her self control and banishing thoughts of Ruby's long nails combing through his hair and her lips on his neck- "Good for you."

Her friend's eyes widened.

"Really? That's your reaction?"

Emma looked away, busying her hands pouring each woman another drink as she shrugged again in her best interpretation of indifference.

"Emma, I can tell you have a liking for him- the last time he was here I saw you looking at him quite frequently."

"So?"

"So? Go talk to him! Emma - he's handsome - and wealthy! I thought you wanted out of this place? A man like that could offer you that."

"I don't need a man to rescue me, Ruby. And beyond that, what on earth would he see in someone like me? Rich men like that want ladies who flaunt about in fancy carriages, not bar maids with aprons that stink of ale."

That's what she was: a beer wench with barely a trunk full of possessions in this world and no way to make anything more for herself in this land of kingdoms and peasants. She felt herself frown at the reminder of her status. She took another sip of the rum. It was cheap and it burned her throat but she relished it all the same. A drink or two was one of the only ways she was able to relax when away from Henry.

"But you _do_ find him attractive."

"Were you listening to anything I said?" Emma cried.

"Yes! And as always you are the negative one in our friendship, always judging people, making up their stories before you have even gotten to know them."

"It saves on disappointment," Emma replied sourly, with a glance back over towards where the man in question sat. "He is very handsome and charming, I can't deny that," she quietly added

Despite herself, she _was_ drawn to him. There was something about his confidence (or what may be called _arrogance_ ) that intrigued her. At some point in their acquaintance, however, she had realized that this was all a front. He was hiding something and she was trying to not wonder what.

Reaching across the table, Ruby grabbed her hand. "Then act upon your desires for once! Be selfish! Stop worrying and live in the moment."

"I can't," Emma whispered.

No, she couldn't.

"Why not?"

She took a breath to begin a reply.

But then paused, a strange feeling came over her. Maybe it was the rum. Maybe it was Ruby's pep talk. But perhaps she could, for one night, forget all the reasons why she couldn't just be a regular woman. The weight of all the years she had spent struggling and caring for Henry - and seeking a way of returning home - was heavy on her shoulders. For tonight could she unshackle those memories? After all, it wouldn't be too long until she could leave this place - _she prayed_ \- and this entire life would become nothing but a faded dream.

At the very least, it would mean the end to Ruby's interrogation.

"Fine. I'll speak to him."

Ruby gave a feline smile.

"Don't get cocky now," Emma warned.

"I wouldn't dare," she replied as she stretched out her hand. "Good luck."

Emma shook the offered hand and then picked up the bottle of rum and her goblet from the table.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as she made her way the short distance to his table. He had his tankard clasped between both hands, his head bowed in a brooding manner which caused thick strands of his hair to fall over his forehead. Her cheeks burned in anticipation of the meeting.

Just before she reached him, a large group of freshly docked sailors swept into the tavern. The hubbub they brought with them, caused Killian to raise his head: just in time to meet Emma's eyes as she approached. Her feet faltered a minute as he gave her a small smile and a nod, and for a moment the whole room seemed to go quiet. He looked at her like she was the sun. Dazed almost. No one had ever looked at her like that. She looked away, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she slid the last few steps.

"Good evening, Emma," he said.

"Um, and to you," she smiled, almost scared to look back again lest the dizzying feeling that she just experienced return. "Some rum?" she asked before drawing her bottom lip between her teeth.

"That would be most agreeable," Jones replied, as Emma began to pour. She was just finishing, when she felt his hand rest gently on top of hers. Startled, she looked up. In the low light his blue eyes were the darkest she had ever seen them. One could almost call them mysterious, as was the strange way he was looking at her. "Join me?" he asked.

"We're busy..."

"Your friends seem to be taking care of the newcomers," he pointed out. She looked over her shoulder and saw that he was indeed correct, Ruby and Gwen were doing an extremely competent job of doling out drinks and tankards.

"Perhaps, but-"

"Consider it compensation for my earlier assistance."

Emma gave a lopsided smile as she folded her arms.

"I thought that was a favor."

He swept his hand through the air theatrically as he whispered, "Quid pro quo." One brow was raised as he observed her, the edges of his lips in a semblance of a smile. Despite herself, she laughed and then took a seat.

"I knew you were warming to me," he teased.

"Please," she groaned with a roll of her eyes. "I don't seem to be able to get rid of you so I'm presuming the more direct approach might pay dividends."

He smirked. Which only served to make him appear more handsome and she reacted by fidgeting in her seat. He picked up his rum and tapped the cup against hers, both pouring back the liquor. She was pleasantly warm now from it.

"So what is your business in Doveport, Jones?"

"I believe I already told you that I merely have an affection for the place. Does that surprise you?"

"I have no feelings on the subject. It's not like I spend my time thinking of you or the motivations for your actions."

"Ah then, that's where we differ love."

She glared at him.

"Sorry, I forgot that term of endearment is not a favorite of yours, I will endeavor to refrain from it. But I must insist on reminding you that I do wish to get to know you better."

She picked up her goblet and toyed with it, rolling it between her palms. "I fail to see why. I have nothing to offer you and there are _plenty_ of women who would be much more impressed by your full purse and smooth words."

He held his hands to his chest in mock pain.

"You wound me, lass. Though in fairness, it is your quick wit and _lack_ of interest in my attentions which are quite the draw."

At his words, she raised her brows. "You have a desire for disappointment then."

"Some say I'm an optimist."

That brought a peal of laughter from her throat. He _was_ certainly charming. And handsome. _And dangerous._

 _(And she'd had too much rum-)_

(And she was enjoying this far more than she had expected.)

"So," she continued, "You've never told me just what you are."

His lips formed a broad smile. "I'm a very handsome man who's rather enamored with a lovely lady."

The compliment rolled over her, and she twisted in her seat. "I _mean_ your occupation. Fine clothes like yours aren't earned on a laborer's wage."

"You are correct," he nodded, his eyes trailing to the table.

If he'd been surprised that she had come over to his table after the way Emma Swan had previously, at least, rebuffed him before accepting his company, he was _not_ surprised that she was finally asking that question.

His persona was purposefully vague. He had grown so accustomed to living the pretend life he had crafted outside the castle - where he wasn't a prince and where his actions had no consequences - he had almost began to forget his true self.

Returning home had reminded him most sourly.

A sudden thought dawned on her. "Wait… I understand. The money, the gambling… you live on family money, don't you?" She wondered why it had taken her so long to piece together this part of his puzzle. It all made sense. The fine things and full purse. The seeming aimlessness of his existence. It was obvious.

His face seemed to fall a little.

So that was what she thought of him. _A free spending gambler._ Well, that was the image he had chosen to project.

Oh how he now wished to share his real identity to her right there. He somehow thought she would understand his situation. Better to be the royal seeking freedom from obligation than an errant son merely frittering away his family's money?

But he was coward.

"How astute you are, Miss Swan," he replied with a cheeky smile, "Yes, I am a pathetic sod who passes his days spending dear dad's money."

"That must afford you a pleasant life."

"You'd think."

He could see the judgement in her eyes. Men like him… the working people abhorred them. Spoilt. Selfish. He knew that. He played up to that role more often than he cared admit. It was easier than being his true self. But Emma believing that was him… Well, somehow that was different.

Emma was in the middle of her own introspection. His change in demeanor had made her recognize her own prejudice against him. She'd watched his shoulders fall a little, and a mask of indifference form on his face in reaction to her accusations. Who was she to label him based upon stereotype? Didn't she hate it when people did the same to her?

"I know what it's like to be judged," she sighed softly. "And that's what I am doing to you now, aren't I?"

"You're not the first and you won't be the last, lass. Don't trouble yourself."

"Still I apologize," she added, slipping another generous measure of rum into each glass.

By way of acceptance, he tapped his glass against hers.

"So what about you?" he asked.

"What - am I secretly a wealthy woman? A princess? Is this all an act so I can learn to 'live with my people'?"

She laughed at the ludicrous thought.

"You are more beautiful than any princess I have met," he said sincerely.

"And you've met so many," she said drolly.

"Some," he shrugged.

 _Dozens_ , he thought.

She arched her back, a crick in her neck from the cart journey suddenly making itself known. As she did, the key, usually so well hidden beneath her bodice, worked its way free of her corset and swung on its chain across her chest.

"What is that?" he asked as he saw the glint of metal.

"Just a key," she shrugged.

A spark of a memory played at the edges of his mind.

His mother had mentioned a key. And a woman. But the old woman who had spoken to her had not spoken of a physical key. Had she?

She'd also used the word swan. He'd dismissed that detail - surely a strange coincidence - but now perhaps not. If he believed in this 'prophecy', surely this was a sign as great as any.

But it was all just a fanciful story, surely…

"Oh hell," she muttered, just as this train of thought was beginning to ripen. "Walsh."

Emma sighed at the sight of her unwanted suitor. He hadn't taken the hint. He never did. Even Ruby knew not to press her towards that man.

"The man from earlier?" Killian asked.

She nodded and tipped her head in the direction of the door.

"He's persistent," he noted.

"Don't I know it."

She tossed the rest of the rum in her cup down her throat. Maybe this was her cue. She'd said she'd let herself be free of her usual reservations, just this once. This could be the push she needed just to see where this attraction to the mysterious Jones was going to take her.

Placing the goblet firmly on the table, she announced, "I need air. Care to escort me?"

He tilted his head.

"Pardon?"

She replied by standing and splaying her palms on the table, making enough noise with the scraping of her chair to attract the attention of Walsh, bending forward until the key dangled above the table and his eyes had a clear view of her cleavage.

"You heard me," she quipped, before heading for the door with a swing in her hips and an unfamiliar feeling of wanton abandon about her person.

And she quite liked it - knowing the man she had a growing attraction to was watching her (and the one she was rejecting seeing the proceedings). Then hearing him follow her until she pushed open the door into the fresh Spring night where she gulped down a breath of moist evening air and felt the rum she had consumed suddenly flood her system.

Confused, Killian followed. Her change in attitude and his mother's tale were both obscuring his ability to think straight. A few steps behind, he watched the swish of her skirts through the doorway, joining her outside the tavern a second later. As the door slammed shut, he felt her hand grasp his arm and she pulled him towards the narrow alley that ran alongside the tavern.

"Wha-"

Protest swallowed by her delicious lips, his back became pressed against the cold brick of the tavern's wall while her hands grabbed the lapels of his coat, pushing their bodies together. The taste of rum was doubled on the tip of his tongue. Her body was warm and he sank into her embrace; hands gripping her waist before sliding up her back. He was lost.

 _A kiss. It was just a kiss._

So why did she feel like she was drowning?

It's had been longer than she cared to remember since she had let herself indulge in a man. There were always a thousand reasons to stop herself.

But had a kiss ever felt like this? So powerful that it permeated every fiber of her being? Her skin hummed with electricity. A wave of warmth washed over her until any chill in the air was forgotten and all she longed for was for him to touch her more intimately-

A few feet away there was the sound of breaking glass. Emma gasped, pulling back from Killian, recognizing the unmistakable noise of one of the tavern's windows shattering.

(It was far from the first time.)

Panting gently, she looked at him, before glancing back to the street. His eyes were wide, his expression wrecked. She cursed whatever had caused the commotion as the responsible part of her knew she had to investigate. Picking up her skirts, she made the few quick steps towards the commotion only to find a drunken sailor being manhandled by two of his friends.

"We meant no harm!" the tallest one cried, "It's our first port in weeks… Simmons here is a bit merry."

Emma frowned. Whether more in annoyance at the breakage or the interruption, she wasn't sure.

"Well your friend will need to pay for the glazier."

"Of course-" the man continued as Simmons struggled to keep himself upright.

Killian approached behind her. He'd taken a moment to compose himself - a few deep breaths and unsexy thoughts.

"Everything alright, Emma?"

Turning back to him, Emma was about to reply when the sailor beat her to it.

"Dear God. Your Highness, what an honor. Oh heavens-"

The man pulled his cap from his head and nudged his friends to do the same. The three men bowed as best they could with one of their party too drunk to stand on his own.

"I think you have the wrong person," Emma laughed, tossing Killian a glance only to see his face stony and serious. Killian Jones? A prince? She couldn't imagine such a thing.

The man spoke again, shaking his head most adamantly. "No - a sailor from Bretton would know Prince Killian should he see him in the flesh!"

Cold dread doused any fire that still lingered in her veins. Surely not… She fixed her eyes on Killian. "What are they talking about?"

Killian's mouth went dry. Of all the ways he had thought she may discover him, this was one he had not considered. He was rarely recognized. But then he rarely frequented port towns for that very reason. He could like… say they were drunk.

"I can explain-" he began, but really not having a clue where to begin.

Her face crumpled in frustration as the reality of the situation quickly dawned. "Is he speaking truthfully? Are you what he said?" Now the coldness of betrayal and dishonesty was being thawed by the flames of anger.

"I-"

He saw the ferocity in her gaze.

What use was lying further?

"Aye," he admitted, hanging his head low, vaguely aware that the sailors had scarpered.

"Son of a bitch," she spat. Her heart was beginning to race. She needed to get away.

With rapid footsteps, she turned and began to walk. She knew not where she was going. Just away. The footsteps turned to a run as she picked up the pace. Her chest heaving with the effort in her corset.

 _He'd lied._

Just like she knew he would.

 _A goddamn prince!_

Hell, he'd obviously been playing her all this time.

Of-fucking-course.

The ground was still wet from earlier and the cobbled roads slippery. Behind her, she heard Killian call her name. She blocked out the sound, instead concentrating on the village clock which was at that moment chiming the hour. If she hurried, she could lose him. She knew this town like the back of her hand, after all.

He chased after her, not knowing how he could fix the situation, but knowing he had to try. He understood her hurt. Truely. And he cared more than he understood that she thought less of him now - whether for lying or being a sodding prince. The idea of having lost her good favor forever, hit him in the gut like a punch.

Her blue dress was easy to spot, even in the twilight.

Then, she was only a half-dozen paces away.

"Emma!" he cried. "Let me explain!"

She looked back over her shoulder just at the moment that she slipped in a lingering puddle of rainwater- his breath caught in his throat as everything seemed to slow down. She fell backwards, her hands clawing at the air until she hit the ground, her head making contact with the pavement with a sickening thud.

 **Twelve years earlier…**

Emma ran until she was out of breath, finally pausing to take in deep, heaving gasps of air. Although it wasn't that cold she was shivering - her body shaking as she tried to calm herself and listen for any sign of the cop who was chasing her. Maybe she had lost him. Oh god she hoped she had.

With her back pressed against the damp brick of the alleyway she had found herself in, Emma tried to get her bearings. She just needed to get back to the bug. It should only be a few blocks away. If she got there then she could just drive. And think.

Her breathing slowed. It was quiet.

Maybe it was safe now. She stepped forward, taking cautious, tentative steps.

And then she saw it.

The cop car, waiting for her, its lights and sirens coming to life as she came into its view.

" _Shit_!" she cried, turning on her heel and running in the opposite direction.

Her boots pounded against the ground, the sound echoing against the narrow walls of the alleyway.

 _Thud, thud, thud-_

Her footsteps were chasing the beat of her heart. Faster and faster-

She took a left then a right.

Any way to escape.

But behind her she could still hear her pursuer. The siren blaring out every few seconds in time with the rolling red and white lights.

No… No. _She couldn't get caught._ She had the watch, they would think it was her who stole it.

Panicked, her eyes darted around looking for an escape route.

Then she saw it. A fire escape. She could climb. Climb up, then-

Then _something._

Tossing a glance behind her, she saw the lights of the police car. It was so close.

She ran towards the fire escape, jumping up to grab the first rung of the ladder.

And then she climbed. Her boots slipped on the damp metal. Her bag swung around her shoulder, her foot almost tangling in its strap.

Reaching the second floor, she looked down. The car had stopped, the cop had gotten out, and he was heading in her direction-

She climbed. _Faster, quicker_ \- pulling herself up step by step until the muscles in her legs burned.

She tried each window as she reached it.

 _Locked._

The panic was rising. A cool pool of dread settled in her stomach.

By the seventh floor, she could feel herself running out of energy. Below her, the cop was only a couple of floors away. He was shouting at her. He had his gun in his hand-

She went to take the next ladder, but then something was wrong. Her hand slipped, or maybe her foot-

A second later she was tumbling, the cry for help caught in her throat-

And then a flash of swirling light engulfed her. It was bright but cold, icy cold like a storm wind. A fierce gale surged with it, whipping through her hair, tangling it around her face.

Then everything went black.

/

Peeling open her eyes, she flinched away from the bright sun.

 _It was daylight?,_ she thought, _how-?_

She spread out her palms, sucking in a deep breath of surprise when instead of the expected asphalt, she felt soft blades of grass beneath them.

"What the-" she muttered, frowning as she forced her reluctant eyes to open.

Slowly, she looked up. The fuzzy shapes she saw at first slowly gained focus.

Branches. Leaves. Trees?

She pushed herself up, furtively glancing about her.

Trees. Lots of them.

She was in a park. Or a forest-

"Where the hell am I?"

 **A/N: Apologies this took so long...**


End file.
